The following really contains random musings on art and
the making of art.
***
I painted in verdaccio on Saturday, the
underpainting of a portrait of Alex, my favourite male model. I am almost
frightened to finish it; I'm so pleased with the freedom and truly lovely modelling,
all at once, that the verdaccio allowed.
Oh, well. Needs must. As soon as it dries a
bit.
However, while making a few small
adjustments to the underpainting this morning, based on some photos I also took
that day, I began thinking...a dangerous activity, at best.
Easel No. 2 gets some attention
When I finished that, I returned to the scenic part of the portrait of Julia on
a train. The scene will be finished with clouds of steam and smoke from the
antique engine, so it is not going to be painted in photographic realism at any
level. I'm sort of bored with that part, really, and began defining objects
with black lines.
Black lines? You used black lines in a
painting? A PORTRAIT? The voices of professors I never had filled my head.
How does that work? I got an undergraduate
degree in English Literature from a very academically intense university in the
US. I was literally afraid to take art courses there, despite my room-mate, an
art major, encouraging me. Years later, I studied at the Art Students League of
New York because the art in me needed an outlet. And thank the gods for that. ASL is
the most un-academic place on earth, a place where art technique is taught, but
experimentation is applauded. A place where there are few absolutes; when I was
there, the few that existed were learned in the life-drawing classes of the
late Robert Beverly Hale. They were essential, however.
Back at the easel....
So there I was, using the lining brush to
define the outside of an antique dining car railway carriage in Ivory Black,
and thinking--finally--that academics probably has no place, or little place
anyway, in the production of art.
And for some reason, the name of my friend
Judy Hoffman, a Baltimore artist, popped into my head.
Possibly that's because her late father,
Earl Hoffman, was quite famous, and bequeathed to her his formula for an
ancient Italian painting medium, which she manufactured in the basement for
years.And which I've been thinking of getting her to send to me, across the wide Atlantic.
***
Earl Hoffman was not a classical painter;
he painted with broad strokes, capturing scenes with artistic freedom. He was a
contemporary of Ann Didusch Schuler, and, with her and four others who had
studied at the Baltimore Institute College of Art, a member of a group of
artists known as the Baltimore Realists. Schuler, who was the aunt of my
husband's late first wife, had passed on in 2010. Because of the family
connection, we had quite a collection of her works, some sold a few years ago,
some transferred to Simon's daughter before we moved to the UK, but one Old
Masters-type still life in our dining room still.
The art school Ann Schuler founded
continues. I met the lady once, about seven years ago, at her annual Christmas
party when her son would light real candles on the Christmas tree for just a
few minutes, lest house and school go up in smoke. Ann Didusch Schuler was
lovely that evening, both physically and personally, in welcoming me as the new
wife of her late niece's husband.
I love that I decided I really wanted to
meet my husband after seeing this photo of him at a reception at Ann Didusch Schuler's art
school.
***
I miss Judy. We shared a love of painting and
horses, and often rode together. I miss my stepdaughter. I
even...sometimes...miss Baltimore, a city I have often described as a weird
combination of the best parts of Paris and the worst parts of Calcutta.
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