The drawing of Mr. Paulson was done today from a photograph made by Dennis Cook of the Associated Press. The one of former Federal Reserve Chairman Alan Greenspan was done from life at the New York Hilton in November of 2006.
YellowFever is a duo from Texas; while I was checking out the Dan Graham show they came in to play one of the Friday Night “Live At The Whitney” concerts; I had to watch from above the stage on the balcony because the space was packed and the museum guards wouldn’t let me draw while standing on the stairwell.
People lining up at the Whitney entrance:
The New York Times this week featured an engaging article by Michael Kimmelman about the once ubiquitous activity of sketchbook drawing. Mr. Kimmelman notes that travelers “who took the Grand Tour across Europe during the 18th century spent months and years learning languages, meeting politicians, philosophers and artists and bore sketchbooks in which to draw and paint — to record their memories and help them see better. Cameras replaced sketching by the last century; convenience trumped engagement, the viewfinder afforded emotional distance and many people no longer felt the same urgency to look.” Taking the time to slow down and consider one’s experience is an essential part of keeping a sketchbook, and indeed it seems rare to find people actively drawing this way as a regular practice any more.
Drawing has always, at least until recently, been a fundamental basis for most other creative pursuits, whether in architecture, painting, sculpture, or costume and fashion design. Even dancers have been known to work out difficult choreography with a drawing. Botanists, anthropologists, archaeologists, zoologists and a whole spectrum of people engaged in “scientific” pursuits made drawings as part of their practice of scientific observation. Think of Lewis and Clark, recording flora and fauna in bound sketchbooks that they carried with them on their long, adventurous trek into a new world.
Michelangelo, who made this drawing a few years before his death, was asked by a younger man for advice about how to proceed in becoming an artist. The story goes that the old master’s response was simply, “draw, draw, draw.” Compared with our 18th and 19th century forebears, touring the continent with their baedekers, pencils and watercolors in hand, we are all probably suffering from technologically-induced attention deficit disorder. Perhaps my own need to keep a sketchbook handy is an attempt to cure myself of this illness, or to at least create a buffer of sorts that might hold the disease at bay for a while.
One of my sketchbook entries from the recent Caillebotte exhibit at the Brooklyn Art Museum:
During a bicycle ride through TriBeCa today, I came across some Bastille Day festivities on West Broadway, where a large crowd had gathered to play petanque on a sand court set up for that purpose in the street. There was a brass band playing music and a petanque tournament was in progress when I arrived, in front of the Cercle Rouge Brasserie, a French Bistro that is apparently named after the 1970 movie, Le Cercle Rouge.
This Petanque player’s energy was an amazing thing to behold; my drawing does not fully convey the intensity of his focus as he took his position to make his shots. The other players were much younger than him, mostly college kids, jostling each other and laughing, their energy loose and scattered by comparison. This man became completely rooted to the ground when he lined up to shoot: his gaze penetrating and precise as he bent slightly at the waist, his right hand poised for a moment like a discus thrower in an olympiad. I could almost feel the line of force radiating out from his face across the court. He was good, too: his boule frequently landed within an inch or two of the jack. After finishing a round, he would take a drag off of a little cigarillo before casting the circle for the next shot, saying nothing the whole time. Petanque, I recently discovered, actually means anchored feet.
On 10th Avenue and 20th Street, right on the edge of the Chelsea Art District, this accordionist was busking on the corner, his back turned towards the avenue, facing the parking garage that sits nearby. I noticed him as much for his outfit as his music: he wore a helmet modeled after a Star Wars character the entire time that he was playing. He would not remove the helmet even to wipe his face (it was a bit warm outside), but instead would deftly lift the mask partially away and run his hand underneath: I wondered if perhaps he was trying to conceal his identity. At one point he began playing a Philip Glass theme that I recognized, then segued abruptly into La Marseillaise and the theme from Star Wars. He was still there when I rode by again an hour later, groups of art tourists walking by tossing money into his open case.
Above: two oil sketches on sized paper.
Below: three watercolors.
I can’t imagine not having plants sitting around the studio. An artist friend of mine named Moses Hoskins gave me a tip on growing avocados a few years ago, and I started this one in a coffee can. I’m going to have to transplant it again soon. It’s sitting on my rolling palette-table, which is just a ready-made tabouret fashioned from an old crate I’d found on the street in Manhattan some 15 years ago. I screwed some caster-wheels onto the bottom and store my oil mediums in it. It’s dimensions are identical to the size of my 12″ x 15″ Enigromatic Paintings, one of which is mounted to the side in this photo.
A few years ago I saw an exhibit of Picasso paintings at a gallery on 57th street that included an old palette that the artist had sitting in his studio when he died. I was surprised to see how similar it was to this little crate that I’d found, with an old ceramic plate on top with black paint dried onto it, a brush still stuck to the paint. It was one of the most moving things I’d seen from Picasso: it reminded me of some of his guitar constructions somehow.
During my regular visits to Prospect Park, I usually bring my sketchbook and inks in my bicycle bag. Here are a few brush drawings I made of the trees there:
These were mostly done in my neighborhood in Brooklyn; the bridge goes over the Gowanus Canal at Union Street. I sometimes carry a small tin of watercolors with a special brush that folds into a tube; the whole thing fits into my pocket or a shoulder bag, along with whatever sketchbook I’m carrying.
My most recently published “artist’s book” is Buildings and People. This one is mostly drawings of my neighborhood here in Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn, and a few street scenes in Manhattan, plus some drawings of my fellow subway riders. You can buy a copy of Buildings and People at this great little boutique called Serimony in Brooklyn on Court Street near 3rd place.
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