Last night we watched "Once" again, because Lauren
had not seen it. We had been talking earlier about mindfulness, and about how
prayer, and art, and writing, and song, might be venues for its cultivation.
Someone once said Hansard sings like his life depends upon it. Which is only as
it should be, right? This is how we learn. This is how we grow.
Sunday, August 3, 2014
64 x 1 (The Rules)
This post is the first in a new series: 64 posts of exactly 64 words. I am planning to deliver them in four "courses" of 16 posts each. I chose 64 because it's a square and offers many possibilities for the ways the words might be configured: eight lines of eight words, 16 lines of four words, etc. A game to play. We're off.
Monday, July 28, 2014
The Art of Collage
This post is in three parts. The first contains some general thoughts about collage as an art form.
The second is a discussion about one particular collage that I recently
completed. Those of you with a taste for the concrete over the generalized may
wish to skip directly to Part II. I have also included, for those of you with
an appetite for the subject at hand, an appendix of sorts (Part III) with links
to further investigations.
Part I: Thoughts on
Process
I have been studying and practicing the art of collage for
something like eight years now. Much of what I see done by collage artists, and
even more of what I see written about it (and about most other forms of art as
well), is at odds with the practice of art as I have experienced and understood
it. Robert Motherwell, a master of many forms of art, including collage, and
certainly one of the most thoughtful and articulate masters of the modern era,
had this to say:
Art like love is an active process
of growth and development, not a God-given talent; and since in modern society
the audience rarely sees the actual process of art, the audience's remoteness
from the act of painting has become so great that practically all writing about
modern art has become explaining to the audience what the art is that the
audience has got so far away from. And those whose profession it is to do the
explaining are more often than not mistaken.
Motherwell asserts two things here: first, that art as he
understands it is not a matter of ability but of practice (which is to say, a
disciplined and continuous movement toward something not already mastered or
understood), and second, that most people misunderstand the true nature of art,
especially those who think they know the most about it. [The same of course can
be said about writing and those teachers—unfortunately the great majority in
our schools—who starting in elementary school and going on all the way through
college foist the most bizarrely twisted notions of what writing is and should
be upon their students, and then wring their hands in despair when their
students seem to be both uninterested and incapable of living up to their
"standards." I have addressed that topic elsewhere on this blog, and
will doubtless do so again. (BTW, the cover article in this weeks New York
Times Magazine Elizabeth Green writes compellingly that the same can be said of
the teaching of math in most American schools today.) But I would just like to suggest at the start that much
of what I intend to say here about the practice of art applies to the practice
of other disciplines as well. I will rely on the thoughtful reader to make the
connections.]
Collage involves a number of operations. Before one can even
begin, one must have some materials, and so the first operation might be said
to be gathering. I have a closet
filled with glassine envelopes filled with papers and pictures and handwritten
letters and the yellowed pages of old books. I suspect that I am drawn to these
particular materials because I have been a dedicated reader since I was a child
and have always felt most comfortable when surrounded by books. I like the
textures of papers, the smell of them, the heft of them. I like words. I like
how putting one word next to another creates a little world in the space
between. (A very talented and inspirational teacher at the school I used to
work at would ask his eighth graders at the start of the year to do a series of
exactly this kind of poems: two words to create a world. See a brief
explanation here. )
The materials I select must necessarily come from the world
that I inhabit. Another artist will have another collection. Collage artists
who prefer to work in three dimensions rather than two have their own name for
their enterprise: assemblage. And their collections tend to be even quirkier
and more idiosyncratic than those of us who work in two dimensions with paper.
Once one has some materials at hand, there is the need for a
process of selection. What will the
elements of this particular composition be? Here, as in writing, there are two
schools of thought, and, as in writing, I find myself closely aligned with one
of them. The first way, which might be called the deductive approach, is to plan
it out in advance: to decide on a theme or an idea and then select materials
which relate to that idea. The problem with that way of proceeding, from my
point of view, is that it cuts the element of surprise out of the picture from
the very start. You decide what you are going to do, and then you do it. The
likelihood that you are going to come up with something fresh or original or
revelatory is next to nil.
The second way is to work inductively, that is, to work up from the materials. There are many
classic formulations of this manner of working. Jasper Johns explained his
working method to an interviewer as: "Do something, then do something to
that, then do something to that." Picasso, speaking of the act of drawing,
says something similar:
Ideas are simply starting points. I can rarely set them down as they come to my mind. As soon as I start to work, others well up in my pen. To know what you're going to draw, you have to begin drawing… When I find myself facing a blank page, that's always going through my head. What I capture in spite of myself interests me more than my own ideas.
The processes of selection and arrangement are nonverbal and
intuitive. Randomness is built into the method as an essential component. Attending to what takes shape under your
eye as you work is as much, or more, a process of learning than it is of a
process of being in charge. This is the way of working that I find to be most
interesting and most satisfying. I almost never know, even after I have
assembled my materials, what my first move is going to be, much less my second
or third. I have to be willing to work things out as I go along.
The arrangement
and assembly of the elements of the collage is perhaps the definitive step, the
part of the process which is most purely and obviously "creative."
Every individual choice, once made, eliminates an infinite number of others. Do
I start with this piece, or with that? A big piece, or a small one? At the
center, or on an edge? Rotated this way, or that? Use a color that blends with
what is already there, or introduce something new? Do a preliminary layout and
paste it up once I've figured it out, or (more likely, in my case) paste down
one piece before I decide on the next? One constant negotiating point has to do
with edges. Is the paper to be cut with a scissor, giving a hard edge, or torn,
giving a softer, more fluid edge. If torn, should it be from the bottom side of
the paper up toward you, which will generally leave a monochrome edge, or from
the top down, which will leave a sort of variable border of a different color
that whatever is on the surface of the paper. Will the collage be flat—that is,
strictly two-dimensional—or will there be elements which stick up or out,
interrupting the picture plane? How many different individual elements? (My
general observation: less is more. I've seen very beautiful collages with three
or four elements in them. But one of the supreme masters of collage, Kurt
Schwitters, often has dozens of elements layered on top of one another to
stunning effect.) Will it be entirely collaged elements, or will it be a
painting with collage elements or a collage with painted passages in it?
Another decision point: will the pictorial element in the
collage be continuous with or discontinuous with the rectangular shape of the
paper or backing? You can arrange shapes ON a paper, or you can cover the paper
completely. Which will it be this time?
All of the above decisions take places more or less
intuitively in the act of making the work of art. The fact that you are using
bits and pieces of paper (or, in the case of assemblage, wood or metal or
whatever) means essentially that there is always going to be some degree of
concord and some degree of discord between the assembled elements. Here's
Motherwell again:
…essentially the collagist takes a
lot of disparate elements and places them. The problem is, given these
disparate and conflicting elements, how ultimately to unify them. It's a painful and precarious way of making order. The
separate elements tend to carry on guerrilla warfare with one another, a source
of tension, true, but also possibly of chaos.
What often results in in the making of the collage is the
creation of a kind of self-contained alternate universe. The individual
elements create a web of associations that invite the onlooker to imagine an self-enclosed
world that operates on rules which are perhaps parallel to but quite dissimilar
from the ones we are familiar with. Inevitably, given its origins and the process
by which it is produced, a collage is also almost always, if obliquely, a
self-portrait of the artist at the moment of its creation. The selection of
these elements as opposed to those, in this order as opposed to that, in the
context of this person's aesthetic intuitions as opposed to someone else's: all
these choices suggest something in the way of an intimated autobiography.
Once the collage is complete, further decisions need to be
made about presentation, as well as
dispensation. What happens now? Is the collage to be framed? If so, what kind
of frame? With or without a mat or mats? With or without glass? Is it to be
given away, or sold, or kept? If kept, is it to be in daily sight, or tucked
away in a drawer?
The whole process invites the question, why do it at all?
It's a given that most people are not much interested in collage unless it has
been completed by a child in their family. It's a given that even those who are
willing to take a look are unlikely to look long enough or closely enough to
meet the work of art on its own terms. An artistically inclined young person
might be well advised to try another line of inquiry: drawing, painting,
sculpture even. There are broader and better informed audiences for these
endeavors. But still, it's honorable work, and interesting. Perhaps anything
can be, if approached in the spirit of a practice.
Part II: The Floating
World
Several weeks ago I completed a collage that pleased me. Not
all the ones I make do. As with the writing of a poem, there are a lot of ways
you can go wrong. One unfortunate addition can take a very nice work and wreck
it, unless of course you are able to reconceive the work in such a way as to
incorporate and gain advantage from what is initially an unpleasant surprise. To
turn the familiar adage on its head, Failure is always an option. But once in a while things fall into place
surprisingly well.
When I was assembling the materials, all I really had in
mind was that I wanted to do something with the color red. I went through my
various bags and boxes and drawers and selected pieces that had some variety of
red in them, and then took an piece of 11"x14" heavy paper to use as
a backing. I taped around the edges with 1 3/8th" masking tape
to give me border of sorts, and then began trying out placements. This collage
was unusual for me in that I selected and placed all of the individual pieces
first, removed them in order from top to bottom, and pasted them back down, one
at a time, from bottom to top. I have gotten into the habit of using clear
acrylic matte medium to put the materials together. It's easy to use with a
brush, it dries transparent, and it's easy to clean up. I first put medium on
the backing paper, then on the back of the piece to be glued, then place it
down and paint over the front of the paper to smooth it down. With larger
pieces of paper it's tricky to get it to lie flat without air bubbles, but that
gets easier with practice.
The individual elements in this particular collage cover a
lot of territory. The triangular piece in the lower left corner is from a reproduction
of "Still Life with Magnolia" by Matisse. Matisse has taken over a
large part of my brain in recent years. I did not hear much about him when I
was in high school and college. It is only when I started taking an active
interest in art as a discipline in the last decade of my life that I began
bumping into Matisse everywhere. Picasso I knew, or at least knew of. But
Matisse has won me over, and starting this collage with that bit of paper was a
conscious act of tribute. That particular fragment also shows all three of the
kinds of edges I made reference to in Part I: the left and bottom edges are cut
with scissors in a straight line; the top edge is torn toward the top, leaving
a rough irregular white border, and the right side is torn toward the bottom,
leaving an irregular red edge. There's
an interesting intersection on the downward-sloping top edge where the two
kinds of edges meet at exactly the place where the two bordering pieces meet as
well. The first of those pieces, the one with with the maroon squares on it, is
a holdover from a period several years ago in Hawaii where I was for a while
cultivating the habit of making my own paper designs by creating stamps from
foam rubber and rubbing them in leftover acrylic paint and using them to press
various designs—this one based on a grid of squares—onto rice paper.
To the right of that paper is a map of sorts, which is a
fragment of a cover of a recent book review section of the Sunday New York Times.
At the bottom right corner of the collage is a reverse "L" shape from
the cover of Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment by Dostoevsky, a
book that goes way back to my reading in college. Again, that piece has both
hard and soft edges.
The volcanic piece in the middle, the crane piece above it,
and Japanese ladies are all from materials given to me by a close friend in
Hawaii who took an interest in my artwork and gave me materials from her family
archives to play with. I rarely cut out silhouetted pieces for collages, but in
this instance I used both scissors and and an X-acto knife to cut out the
figures of the Japanese women somewhat precisely. That was the last piece to go
down and suggested to me the title for my piece, "The Floating
World."
The red piece in the upper left is Christmas wrapping paper
from a gift I had been given; I had set it aside against the day when it might
be useful. And the maroon piece at the upper right is from my trip to the
Medici-Ming paper store I discovered when I was at an NAIS conference in
Seattle several years ago. I bought it because I liked the color and thought
the rather subtle embossed letter motif felt appropriate to me in my line of
work. (In a similar vein, one of my favorite shirts has what looks like an
abstract black and white pattern that on closer examination turns out to be
connected rows of the letters of the alphabet.)
So not only is this collage a color study, and an
arrangement of forms, but it is, like most of my other collages, a sort of
oblique self-portrait drawing on experiences, influences, and the history of my
involvement with the process of reading, writing, and artmaking, not to mention
the fifteen years I spent living in Hawaii.
In essence, what I have attempted here is a painting of
sorts, using found materials in place of paints. In this endeavor I have been
inspired by many who have gone before, including Robert Rauschenberg, one of my earliest and most significant inspirations, and of course Kurt Schwitters:
I could see no reason why used tram tickets, bits of driftwood, buttons and old junk from attics and rubbish heaps should not serve well as materials for paintings; they suited the purpose just as well as factory-made paints... It is possible to cry out using bits of old rubbish, and that's what I did, gluing and nailing them together.
Part III: Appendix
I've been curating my own digital museums of collage for
several years now. If you'd like to see some of the work that I have found to
be interesting and/or inspiring, you might want to check out my boards Collage
and Collage II on Pinterest, or this archive of collages on my Tumblr site, on which there is a lot more art of every kind piling up.
Among the many contemporary collage artists whose work I admire:
Finally, my own collage work over the last several years can
be found on this board on my Flickr site. (Note, the collages here are displayed from earlier to later. My more recent work is at the bottom.) Or, alternatively, several boards on Pinterest, including this one and this one. I also did a post last year about some collages I was working on at that time.
Tuesday, April 1, 2014
Out of Dreams II: John Frame
Kind of weird that the same day I did the post about dream images in my own art I ran across this video, in which John Frame talks about how a dream set him on an artistic odyssey that he has been on for the last six years:
He says (along about 6:45):
I went to bed at about 1:00 in the morning and at about two o'clock in the morning I felt this push. And I was pushed back into consciousness in a very strange way. When I awakened I was in contact with my dream state. I now know that this is called the hypnopomppic state. It's a state where were bridged between the conscious mind and the unconscious mind, to the subconscious mind, the dream world. And in that state I could see a new world that I've never seen before. And it was very very complete. It had characters, it had architecture, it had landscape, things I'd never seen before. It had a art forms that I've never seen before. The one thing I was familiar with was that these were my characters who were inhabiting this world, but they moved, that's the critical thing. It was an amazing opportunity to stay in contact with the dream world and between about 2 o'clock in the morning at about 5:30 or six in the morning I simply looked at this world and attempted to memorize it. I just I just wanted to see and remember every single detail about was in front of me. About 5:30 or six in the morning my wife awakened. I was literally afraid to move. I asked her if she would bring the paper and pencil, and I started writing down the things that I had seen in as much detail as I could possibly capture. I was in that state of suspension between the dream world the waking world for about 12 hours. It simply didn't go away. This is technically known as the hypnopompic state and ordinarily we just get a tiny glimpse of that, but in my case I suspended there, and at the end of this when I had captured as much for the information as I possibly could, I realized I was now going to embark on a professional life as a filmmaker, as an animator, doing stop-motion animation with these characters that I had created.
The world he has created is here in this amazing video, which I first discovered on Lynda Barry's amazing tumblr site The Nearsighted Monkey
Monday, March 31, 2014
Out of Dreams
As a child I often had dreams that consisted of colored
geometrical shapes against a black background, moving over and through one
another: rectangles, triangles, circles in motion, combining and recombining,
morphing into one another.
Over the last few years I've devoted a fair amount of time
to what might be thought of as abstract expressionist drawings of a sort. But
whereas the abstract expressionists were enamored of the spontaneous gesture,
making their marks in bold strokes, the drawings I have been doing are
spontaneous only in conception; in execution, since they are being done not
with a brush but a fine-tipped pen, they are very slow to evolve. Just to do one dark black line or curve involves drawing two outlines at either side and methodically inking in the space between. It's a centering exercise, slow and and deliberate, and most often when I'm at it I'm listening to music as well. (I toyed with calling the last one below 400 Lux, because Lorde was a dominant presence during its gestation.)
These drawings typically begin with an impulsive mark—a random shape,
a line, a squiggle—and then evolve outwards. Having made one shape, I make
another next to it, and another next to that, working around in a vaguely
circular motion toward the edges of the paper. Often, early in the process, a
rule will suggest itself: this drawing will have only curved lines, or only
triangular shapes, or only shapes that do not touch each other. Sometimes the
rule is that the drawing will consist only of solid black and solid white;
other times I will use an extra-fine marker to create shading via parallel
lines and different degrees of cross-hatching. Recently, I've played around with adding ink washes of varying consistencies for contrast:
I rarely have any idea at the start what the drawing will
look like, and most often I will make an effort to steer away from anything
that begins to look like it might want to be something. Every once in a while
what emerges from under the pen is so strongly suggestive of something real
that I will go with the flow and let it become what it seems to want to be. In one case that caught me by surprise, I found myself looking at some kind of fishlike creature, at which point I just gave him some additional fins in the back and let him be:
The drawings I've been doing lately have reminded me very
strongly of the dreams I had as a child. In several cases, I've actually gotten
ideas for drawings from the latent images on the inside of my eyelids as I was
arising from sleep. The image below had its origin in just such a way. I was waking up from a nap and the image of the blue rectangles with the incomplete lines moving in from the edges to the center were in my head, and I thought, okay, maybe I'll try drawing something like that:
So while my drawings may not have a subject as such, they
do feel true to a deeper, discursive logic that arises from within me. The two most recent ones I have completed were both more complex and more satisfying in the way those complexities resolved themselves:
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