The studio is a makeshift one but it is hot with activity and the fresh green of the grass streaming in on the sun. I’ve a painting, Ice Cream, going out to a show at the Mark Miller Gallery on the Lower East Side this week. It’s nice to feel the work is connecting to new eyes.
I see that John Dubrow has lauded a specialist in oil paint making who happens to be over the mountain in Charlottesville. John has a show opening today at Lori Bookstein and is a painter who loves paint and its generous application. I’m eager to meet this artist/craftsman Eric Silver and try his oils. The quest for the perfect paint never ends. I’ll report my findings after my visit. It’s reds I’m after and the perfect Ultramarine Blue, almost impossible to find without the purple cast of recent years.
What an experience when you open your eyes and see the magic that passes before us. These three Crows came to visit yesterday afternoon just as the shadows, because of the crows’ presence, made messages for the initiated to read. I could not. I assume only other Crows know what was written, what directions Mother Nature left for her birds on this beautiful day. Luckily I had a camera close and now I will spend time trying to understand what it was that only the Crows and Mother Nature are supposed to know.
A Saturday in March
Spring is official
Mother Earth is moist and
Everywhere the no-color of March
readies for her surge
Happy to say that my work is included into this adventurous show curated by Nancy Grimes, NY artist and critic. The show runs from April 5th to May 3rd. I wish I could be there!
Is it living on the land or does Spring always come like this? Being either inside or underground, I can’t remember noticing with such an acute shock the almost overnight change in season. I thought these things happened slowly. I guess I was wrong or distracted.
For a painter, there are many more questions before the brush is in your hand and after you set it down than when you are engaged in the making. Without thought, intention or will, the magic of making is simply present, you are awake and no forethought nor consideration can muck up the clarity of the now.
The changes in color are so tender, so delicate, that the slightest shift in hue is barely perceptible. I saw the grass in a few places suggest green but it was almost a mirage, so fragile a change. The in-between times of year are difficult to apprehend and to paint. That astounding green tree, a mix of umbre and two green pigments anchors everything. The Italians must have thought they found their homeland when they looked at landscape like this. Put in some olive trees and it is Umbria.
I have waited and watched for weeks to get a shot of this boy. He is very flashy, quite large and robust, but shy and prone to fly off for the slightest reason. That red is really a cadmium scarlet, an orangey-red. In this muted landscape he looks like he is wearing neon.
In the early morning hours the time leaps ahead and the sun will come over the Blue Ridge sooner than today. We will have more daylight on the snow and cold.