“Almond Tree – Tree in Twilight”, oil, metallic and enamel paint on canvas.
I was raised to think that art history evolved linearly – a straight line from Giotto to Pollock. I was not prepared for the halting, meandering movement of a career in art, where you race forward with one idea, retrack steps, add something new, abandon a direction and end up end up in the middle of a hi-way clover wondering which way to go. Nor was I prepared for all the things that would influence my work — art history, a random photo, a hand injury, the availability of materials. This is why I find it so unnerving to write grants — “describe your project”. My project is to get from where I am to where I am going without crashing. My destination is uncertain, the GPS is broken, I don’t have a map, but I do know that moss grows on the north side of a tree.
With my Almond Tree series, I decided to go deep. Explore the imagery every way I could, and see where that took me. The latest incarnation besides kicking the sacred cow of a Pollock drip, also involved using metallic paint. For most of my career I have used high quality artist fine oil paints, but after attending a workshop with Vincent di Siderio, where he told us that he started a painting with roofing tar and Rustoleum, I thought, why not? The importance of how paint “feels” cannot be overstated. Silver Rustoleum is a lyrical medium with a mecurial affect. With it I was able to add a layer to my Monet inspired landscape, where I was not only depicting the light, I was creating it. In these paintings the surface changes with the light. You never see the same painting. When you move, it changes. When the light changes, it changes. The surface was set in motion.
Funny thing about motion. I started taking photographs of the landscape while I was moving.
When I decided to paint the same thing, More adventures with paint suggested themselves.
“Tracings”, oil on canvas
“Drive By – Night” 68 inches x 42 inches, oil, metallic and enamel paint on canvas.
While driving around and capturing these images first as photos and then as paintings, I also observed what rain looked like as my headlights beamed off of the drops.
“Small Rain”, 40 inches x 72 inches, oil and metallic paint on canvas.
“Small Rain”, side view showing the reflective quality of the paint.
“Ebb Tide”, 70 inches x 70 inches, oil and metallic paint on canvas.
In the end the paint was able to create qualities that I observed in nature. Each effort suggested a new way of working with the paint, subjects that were at times representational and at others abstract. Trying to write about this in a grant is frustrating. All I can say is that I am skidding on black ice in a vehicle hoping not to crash.
A quarter of all of Gustav Klimt’s paintings were landscapes. When I finally saw them all at an exhibition at the Sterling Clark Museum in Williamstown, Massachusetts, what struck me most was their flatness — even Bonnard’s landscapes recedes more into space. Klimt did not paint panoramas, but rather simple motifs: gardens, meadows with fruit trees, farmhouses surrounded by lush vegetation, and details of the lake and its shoreline. Perhaps it is not surprising that the landscapes appeared flat, considering the decorative nature of his other paintings, but it soon became apparent that something else was at work here. Klimt used a variety of viewfinders; initially, a simple piece of cardboard with a hole cut out of it, and later an ivory plate or an opera glass. [austria.info/uk/art-culture]
He also used a telescope. He would stand on one side of the lake and look through it to the opposite shore. The telescope made the landscape appear flat. Klimt used the pointillist’s mark to create his landscapes. However, he did not use it in the same way as the pointillists did, to optically mix colors. His landscapes were organized into blocks of colors and shapes.
Klimpt with Telescope
When you examine one of Klimt’s landscapes close up, a couple of things become apparent. First, he leaves a fair amount of the canvas showing through. And, he frequently outlines things, like the edge of flowers or leaves. I have seen Joseph Raffael do a similar thing in his watercolors. It seems that, especially with watercolors, if you let the edge of, say a leaf, just be the place where the color ends, your whole sense of the leaf as an object disappears, something seems quite off about it. Reinforcing the edge with a line helps it hold its space. This was most obvious in Klimt’s paintings of flowers.
Here is a short video of Joseph Raffael fine tuning one of his watercolors.
For months, I have been sharing the process I am going through to create a four color lithograph. One of my main concerns has been how to translate and reinterpret the color in my paintings into print. As each color is applied separately, you have to think about the construction of the color in a different way from painting.
The people following my process have had their own epiphanies about color and the artistic process. This description from Sean Donovan is particularly interesting:
Several years ago I was commissioned to make a large cabinet to hide a big screen TV. After I had built what they asked for, I let the decorator, Kathleen Brenner, know that I was ready for whatever paint thy had decided on. They sent me some paint from a paint company called the Donald Kaufman Paint Co. The merit of this paint which was extremely expensive, was that it was mixed with pure pigment and no fillers. The paint was labeled DK-3, Yellow.
Donald Kaufman Paint: DKC-26 Photo: Peter Margonelli
From: “Color Palettes” (not the cabinet in this story, just a
sample of Kaufman’s color in the room.)
After properly priming the cabinet, I began to spray on the first coat. It was beautiful. The color was so yellow it was almost breathtaking. I finished up the first coat that night and was very pleased with the results. After a couple of days of drying time, I painted the second coat. As I applied it I could see the cabinet gaining a certain richness that was really surprising to me. A few days later I applied the third coat and was extremely pleased with the result. It was positively stunning. The paint seemed to be magic in that the cabinet seemed to glow and had a depth I had never seen before.
In order to deliver the cabinet, I had to load it in a trailer and take it to Larchmont for delivery. As we moved this cabinet out into the daylight rather than the artificial light in the shop, the color seemed to change. It became a brighter yellow, not as deep as it had been inside. We pushed it into the trailer and it again changed color, to a more subdued yellow. I called Kathy and she said that it was fine and to bring it down and kind of laughed at my concern.
After I had installed the cabinet in a beautifully decorated house, Kathy insisted that I stay and watch the cabinet as the sun went down and cast a changing light on the cabinet. The color change as the sun moved was amazing, it glowed with constantly changing color. Kathy attributed the change to the pureness of the color and I was convinced.
If I was able to contribute some small idea to your work , I am very pleased. Since my experience with that paint, I have realized how difficult it is to be an artist and how much work goes into each work. When you get things finished, let me know and I will come up for a viewing and champagne.
In 1973 I spent a winter as Brower Hatcher’s sculpture assistant, when he was teaching at Bennington College. Today, 27 years later Brower dropped by to catch up. It seems that our ideas are more in alignment now than they were then, even though we haven’t seen each other in the intervening years. It is not that our artistic ideas are so aligned, although one could find some interesting parallels in our interest in light and the desire to envelop the viewer with our artwork, but our ideas about community and how to be an artist in the world are.
We both came out of the tradition of object based art with the artist as the maestro — remember Picasso was still alive in 1973. The way to your public was through the dealers, and in those days they served as gatekeepers determining who was in and who was out. There were two prevailing views of what art was — what Clement Greenberg said it was and everything else. Bennington was ground zero for Greenberg’s view. Both Barnett Newman and Jackson Pollock had significant exhibitions at Bennington. Although I think Tony Smith organized the exhibitions, Greenberg was somehow at the center of all that.
When Brower came to Bennington, sculpture seemed to have a linear progression from David Smith to Tony Caro to Isaac Witkin. Caro and Witkin were connected through Saint Martin’s School of Art in London. Brower was recruited from St. Martins. But he arrived on campus as the anti-structuralist. His work at the time were fields of color made from wire. It was as though someone captured the skeins of lines from a Pollock painting and colored them with Jules Olitski‘s spray paint.
Brower Hatcher, “Coor Monolith”
I came to work for Brower just when he was transitioning to pieces that remained open and expansive, but for which there were points of connection and the beginning of an internal structure. Looking back on the work now it was an obvious move. Being in the middle of the process the move was not remotely evident.
Brower Hatcher, “Untitled – 1979”
I spent my days bending metal fencing in the sub-zero weather of Vermont. Then I welded pieces together with a Mig welder, which instead of welding rods had an automatically fed wire that was charged at the tip. If I missed my mark, which was easy to do when aiming at the joint between two wires, the feed wire would shoot out about a foot and have to be cut off to start again. One time the lead wire shot up my welding gloves into an artery in my wrist. Blood spurt from my wrist about a foot into the air. If you could have seen this fountain of blood and some of Brower’s subsequent sculptures, you might see a correlation.
When I recently came across Brower’s work on the internet it was thrilling to see how the work had progressed. Following his own visual logic he was able to expand the field’s of color and turn them into complex structures that span huge areas of space. These huge webs of interconnectedness is the paradigm that we live in now. But it was not something that we envisioned at the time I worked with Brower. It was a very monolithic world back then. And that was reflected in everything, including how art made its way into the world.
Brower Hatcher, “Aurora”
Brower was not comfortable in that monolithic world and found that through public art projects he could bring his vision to the public directly — a way that was more inclusive of community. He is very interested in how art intersects with community both in the process of making it and in how the community interacts with it once it is made. His public pieces tend to become the center points of the communities in which they are built. Just as the Eiffel Tower or the Fountains in Rome become a symbolic center in their respective cities, so do Brower’s sculptures in his. It becomes a place of interaction, and the surrounding areas become vital commercial centers. A sense of place, an identity, and a corridor for interconnection is born.
Brower Hatcher, “Tillie”
You may wonder how this relates to me and my work. I am still pretty stuck in the object oriented art world. For me the shift is in my sense of community. I have believed for a long time that there is a fundamental shift in how the world operates. The old paradigm is the “dog eat dog world”, “survival of the fittest”, “what is mine is mine” . The new paradigm is all about connectedness, mutuality, sharing and enhancing one another’s lives. One does not win now by cornering the market, one wins by expanding the market to include like minded people.
Brower Hatcher on Bridge
So the next time Brower and I work together, it will be in the spirit of mutuality and I will not be the art slave out in the frozen tundra shooting welding rods into my arteries.
Artist biography: Brower Hatcher was born in Atlanta. He attended the Vanderbilt University School of Engineering and received his degree in Industrial Design from Pratt Institute in New York. He studied sculpture at Saint Martins College of Art in London with Sir Anthony Caro and William Tucker. He was on the faculty at Saint Martins for several years and returned to the United States and joined the faculty of Bennington College where he taught for 13 years. Hatcher left teaching in 1986 and has since has built more than 35 public art projects throughout the U.S. Hatcher is a recipient of three National Endowment for the Arts Fellowships, a Guggenheim Fellowship and an honorary Ph.D. from the State University of New York. He works at the historic Steel Yard in Providence, R.I., as the artistic director of Mid-Ocean Studio, Inc.
Brower Hatcher’s artist statement: My goal, and that of Mid-Ocean Studio, is to create culturally relevant 21st century public art projects. Mid-Ocean is a collaborative group of artists, scientists, fabricators and technical personnel. Our work reflects an ongoing interest in the underlying geometry of organisms and living systems. Our works are typically powder-coated stainless steel ‘cellular matrixes’ built from computer-designed, multi-layered geometric frameworks. Our works often contain various combinations of relevant embedded objects, in this case glass and LED lights. Nature is a strong inspiration in Mid-Ocean’s work and we continually strive to find new ways to incorporate aspects of the natural environment into the work itself.
I like to travel to the other painter’s painting sites. Sometimes seeing the context in which the painting was made gives me insight into the work. When dealing with Monet, going to one of his painting sites may not be enough, unless you also happen to be there during the time of year and hour of day that he worked on his paintings. And even then, there is much we can’t replicate now that Monet was observing in his time, such as the effects of the mini-Ice Age in the 1850s, the pollution from burning coal, and the atmospheric effects caused by the eruption of Kracatoa in 1883.
When I set out to see the Epte River near Giverny, I was at least determined to see it around the same time of day as Monet. I woke up at four in the morning and ran along the Rue de Roi until I came to a turn off near the location of the old train station. The sun was just beginning to crest over the Colines (hills). I decided to follow the sun.
I found a path through the cow pastures. Soon I found a small shed by the river. If Monet was changing canvases every few minutes, I thought that it would be difficult for him to haul them every morning from his studio. Could this be a shed that Monet used to store his canvases between painting sessions? It is also possible that Monet painted his Epte paintings on his studio boat, which blows this theory.
Around the corner from the shed, I came upon this view.
Leslie Parke, “Epte River”, photograph
Claude Monet, “Arm of the Seine Near Giverny”
Leslie Parke, “Epte River at Dawn”, photograph
Claude Monet, “Morning on Seine Clear Weather”
It seemed remarkably like the view in the paintings. I started to take pictures every few minutes. As I stood there several things about Monet’s paintings revealed themselves. I had never understood why the left side of his painting was so much lighter than the right. It seemed to me that it should more closely mirror the right side. As I stood there I could see that as the sun rose on the left light poured though the trees and dissolved the appearance of the leaves into light. Monet was recording exactly what he was observing.
Leslie Parke, “Epte River”, photograph
I shot photo after photo as the light changed. What became obvious was how quickly the light changed and how everything recorded in Monet’s series of paintings of the Epte River basically transpired in an hour. Each painting shows a phenomena that lasts no more than five minutes. Too fast for him to have recorded it in paint.
It is possible that Monet photographed the scene. He loved photography and housed a darkroom in his second studio. Such photographs could have only been in black and white and no such photos exist today. However he accomplished these paintings, his power of perception is unrivaled.
Jeff Greene, left, John Williams, right and the Blue Shirt
When I found John Williams the morning of our pilgrimage to our art mentor, John Semple — Its a Gift to be Semple, posted in August — I was stopped dead in my tracks by John’s blue shirt. It wasn’t the shirt, it was the color; a near indefinable blue hovering between two hues. I told John that I thought it was an extraordinary blue and he concurred saying that he loved how each part of the shirt, cut from different parts of the bolt of fabric, faded differently.
At that point, Jeff Greene, a fellow artist and driver for our adventure asked me what color I thought the shirt was. I said that I thought it was ultramarine with a touch of thalo in it. Jeff said, “Yes it does have red in it.” John and I nodded, knowing that ultramarine has a kind of red undertone. After thinking about it, I realized that I would substitute manganese blue for the thalo. The staining power of the thalo would be too overwhelming for this color.
Winsor and Newton Color Chart
John, who is a graphic designer chimed in that he thought it hovered between Pantone 299 and Pantone 279.
Pantone Color Chart
Then Jeff, whose company restores murals and other decorative paintings in historical settings, said that it was Munsell 5PB 5/12 or 6/12.
Munsell Color Sphere
I knew, of course, that Pantone was a color system used by printers and graphic artists to be sure that they have accurately matched up colors between original design and final printed product. Today, since so much graphic design work is done on computer where the accuracy of color from monitor to monitor cannot be relied on, Pantone is the standard used.
I was familiar with Munsell as one of the early color theorists, along with Chevreul and Goethe (yes, the poet — seems that many of his theories were more poetical than accurate). But I did not know that he had developed a system that “specifies colors based on three color dimensions: hue, value (lightness), and chroma (color purity).”*[Wikepedia] This system was adopted by the USDA as the official color system for soil research in the 1930s.
Munsell System being used to accurately describe the color of the soil.
Jeff said that his company used the system to accurately recreate colors in the walls and ceilings that they restored.
Once on the road, I talked to John about the graphic designer, Carol Jessop, who I had been working with to redesign my website. She went through hundreds of typeface samples before picking the one for my website. I felt it described me well — very straight forward, no nonsense, but with a surprising curve thrown in here and there and an “e” that was weighted oddly.
So, I asked John what typeface he would select for this experience. “Something clean”, he said, ” but also somewhat elegant.” “Like a restaurant with white linen table clothes, ” I said. “Yes, but it would be inviting, too. And you could smell the linen. Very fresh.” Yes, I thought, that seems right.