Aves: New show in San Francisco

The Cottage Industry Painting Salon

2326 Fillmore St. between Clay and Washington, San Francisco

opening Wednesday September 15, 7-9pm.

Show runs through September 30 with variable hours, contact me to arrange a visit.

Desert Bird (I), oil on panel, 3.5 x 4 inches

I’ve been painting birds this summer: tropical birds, familiar songbirds, woodpeckers, a heron, owls. They’re very small paintings, some so small you could fit them in your hand, others up to 12x12 inches. These are portraits of birds, and they are also portraits of what the birds represent -- states of being and relating that are as relevant for humans as for birds. When I paint birds, I think of people.

A heron eyes the gopher in its mouth, and the gopher looks back, wondering why it has to be this way. The heron offers no answer, it just is. A woodpecker flew back to his branch. It was a long day and he’s back and he’s safe and he eases into his territory. His red mane glows, the air around him glows, he is the king of this branch. A yellow songbird notices us but keeps her wings folded, she’s in no rush. Two owls share a perch, they touch but their gazes wander and we don’t know what’s next.

I love thick paint loaded on a brush and dragged across the painting surface. More and more, I love color. I am less concerned with detail in these paintings and more with the raw feeling behind the paint itself. It’s a more fun, more engaging, more visceral way to paint. There’s a tempo to it: a loose beginning, a middle period of discovering the painting’s meaning and rhythm, and a final effort that pushes the paint to a peak. Stopping at just the right time is crucial. It’s a more conscious practice, it feels good.

My work will be show alongside the work of my friend Kristin van Diggelen. Kristin is hosting the space, an off-the track art destination now in it's eight month. Each month features a new figurative painter, and there's always good wine and good company at her salons....so I hope to see you there.

Kingfisher (above) and Tree Swallow (below); both oil on panel, 3.5 x 4 inches

Oregon

I was on the road for a week.

I was in the town of Ashland for the 4th of July and saw this wonderful parade of civic groups and school-kids and firemen and dancers march by, and crowds shoulder-to-shoulder on either side waving flags and eating candy and wearing summer clothes. Small-town America is really sweet, I loved it. Makes me want to find a happy girl and settle down in a little house and take a job at the lumberyard. Seriously. Watched the fireworks that night from the yard of some friends, we climbed up a big tree to see it and that was fun and sweet too, and I was sad when I got back in my truck and drove on.

Portland is a great city. Their gallery scene is surprisingly good, a lot of galleries in the Pearl District showing well-rendered, professional paintings. Lots of cafes and restaurants and parks with people walking their dogs. A clean, well-kept city. Neighborhoods outside downtown are small wood-sided houses with yards and it seemed alright. It made me want to live in a city where I could one day afford to buy a house.

Met my brother in Portland and drove up the Columbia River Gorge. Swam in the river and watched the freight train and ospreys and cottonwood seeds thick like snow, ate cherries from a tree. Hiked in the hills with small lakes and pine forests and Mt. Hood always in the background. Mosquitoes were so ferocious I forgot to be afraid of bears. On unmarked Forest Service roads, remember to never take the spurs and you won't get lost.

Drove down and camped at Castle Lake near Mt. Shasta another two nights. Really really gorgeous here. Lots of people playing in the water, canoeing, floating in plastic floaties. I like the neon plastic colors against the forest green, I like seeing happy people at the edge of nature, and then climbing the mountain over the lake and seeing nothing but wilderness on the other side. There is endless wilderness here, no one would ever find you if you got lost. Mountain after mountain, many still snow-capped. Little songbirds hard to spot, hawks catching downdrafts, icy ponds, good conversation, cooking dehydrated pasta with a curious deer nearby, fishing without the gear, an early dawn and a long drive back.

Now I'm back in San Francisco. Coming back from a trip can be a let-down, but San Francisco is a trip too, it's all a trip and it's all alright.

New Website

My new website is up and running.

It's a clean design, easy to navigate, and it concentrates only on my newer work.

Thanks to L for all your help :)

Cupcakes and other Little Things: New Show in SF

I've been painting cupcakes and other little things, as I alluded to in an earlier post. Those paintings -- 33 new paintings, a good number for this 33rd year of mine -- are on view at Geras-Tousignant Gallery in San Francisco through the end of June (monday-friday 11-4pm). A pdf catalogue is available on the contact page of my website.

The cupcakes were fun to paint, especially the sprinkles and the ridges of the wrappers. When I paint things like this, whether they're cupcakes or toothbrushes or anything at all, they become little characters complete with personalities and unfolding stories. It's about how they're painted -- whether they're alone or in pairs or groups, facing each other or away from each other, what the colors tell you, what the objects symbolize.

Three Red Devils, oil on panel, 4 x 8 inches

I painted three safety pins on panels that are not bigger than 2 x 2 1/4 inches. One is open, one is closed, and two are entwined in each other; I painted them on the phone with L. I painted a lot of dice, I was bold and decisive so they're rolling and the ones that stopped rolling are good numbers. I painted male and female razors; I painted my tools. I painted a level when I was level and calm. And I painted cupcakes and sweets, because I have a sweet tooth.

If you're going to paint cupcakes you have to know Wayne Thiebaud's work, and coincidentally he has a show up at the San Jose Museum of Art through the end of July. I actually feel a little guilty for saying this, but the truth is I've never loved his work and the show didn't change my mind. He's really likable, he's a skilled draftsman and his colors are fun and airy, but the paintings just somehow don't hook me. What I mean is, I don't think about them the next day. You can have all the right ingredients and a great recipe, and put lots of icing on top, but somehow they're just not great. Don't get me wrong, cupcakes are always good, but great is difficult. Thiebaud says the same in a video interview, where he talks about how many artists make paintings, but only the best paintings are art. He worked as an animator for Disney and as an illustrator in an advertising firm in his early career, and you can see that precision and quickness in his work.

There's another video interview on the museum's web page, and it's quite interesting. He's good at talking about painting and I'm sure he was a great painting teacher.

Bakery Case, 60x72 inches, Wayne Thiebaud

Thiebaud's best paintings are his landscapes and views of fields, cities, highways, and overlapping shadows, the ones where things get complicated and he painted in many layers before he figures it all out. I also liked the beach scenes, I don't recall ever seeing someone paint tracks in the sand like that. The show is certainly worth seeing, and if you have time for it he gives a good interview in an accompanying video. A show of contemporary Bay Area realist painting downstairs is also worth seeing. It's good to see that realist painting is making a comeback. In the art-world, realist painting is often marginalized as anti-modern and too-literal, but these and other shows make the case that there's, well, more in display case than first meets the eye.

Michael Knud Ross: Little Things

Geras-Tousignant Gallery, 437 Pacific, San Francisco, through June 20.

Wayne Thiebaud: 70 Years of Painting

San Jose Museum of Art, through July 26.

Real and Hyper Real

San Jose Museum of Art, through August 1.

Red Shoes, and Black and White

I saw an interesting show yesterday: one of the artists in my studio, Taravat Talepasand -- who's work I coincidentally reviewed a few years ago when I wrote for Whitehot Magazine -- has a show of drawings up at Yerba Buena Center for the Arts here in San Francisco. They are meticulously-rendered pencil drawings of her family, of women, and of other subjects relating to her Iranian-American upbringing. The drawing that caught my eye was a younger-looking self-portrait of her in between two other women, all dressed in traditional flowering robes covering everything but their faces. Her robe is pulled up just enough to reveal a pair of bright-red shoes: bright red in a field of black and white and grey. It's a serene and innocent drawing -- really touching -- and in its simplicity and directness more powerful than the complicated and sometimes violent images nearby.

Taravat Talepasand, Traditions are as Followed, graphite and watercolor, 40 x 30 inches

When I was little I had a pair of red shoes that my grandpa gave me one summer when we were visiting, and I loved them so much I refused to take them off. I actually slept with them on. Red shoes, can there be anything more delightful and childlike? Taravat said she brought her red shoes to Iran against her mother's admonition, and you can see the sheepishness and the giddy defiance in this drawing, even as she takes comfort and security from her companions on either side. She compared her red shoes to Dorothy's red shoes in the Wizard of Oz -- a classic and one of the few American movies I saw when I was growing up in Finland. Dorothy is an innocent girl struggling to make her way through a strange dream. She walks down the yellow-brick road arm in arm with her friends, just like in this drawing. The movie Schindler's List also makes use of a little girl's red shoes, but here there is no waking up from the nightmare and the shoes are heart-breaking.

Red is a powerful color. For a child it is delightful: red like the strawberries in my first garden, red like my first tricycle, red like the plastic fire-man hats I'd get with my grandpa when we stopped to say hi to the firemen in the station. For grown-ups, red is the color of anger. We turn red with rage and embarrassment, we bleed red. We pay attention to red, to "red flags" and to red traffic lights. Red is the color of passion, the color of lipstick and nail polish, the color of all things sexy and female. Someone told me that my red jeans are feminine, but I like them all the same.

Schindler's List, the Wizard of Oz, and Taravat's drawing all make use of this really simple and really effective formula: In a field of black and white, add color, especially red. The contrast of color against non-color infers a contrast in time, in mind-set, and in state of being. The South African artist William Kentridge uses lines of red and tinges of blue to enormous success in his stark charcaoal drawings and animated films, and I have also tried it in some earlier charcoal drawings. Old Soviet propaganda posters use the same colors. It even reminds me of the African Sahel, where the landscape is dry and dusty and monochrome, but where the people wear the loudest, most colorful patterns you've ever seen.

When I was studying anthropology, I came across an article about the linguistics of color. In a survey of world languages -- picture thousands of languages from tribes and villages across the world -- the authors discovered there was a system to the way people describe color. Modern languages like English have a vast number of color terms: red is everything from burgundy to vermillion to scarlet, and if you check your crayola crayons or the paint swatches at the hardware store, the terms are almost endless. Other languages have fewer terms, and some languages only have two. In these languages, everything in the world is either black or white. Other languages only have three terms: In these languages everything is either black, white, or red. Things are never black, white, and blue, or black, white, and yellow: red is always the third color. The system continues like this: Languages that have four color terms always have black, white, red, and now I forget if it's blue or green. Languages with five terms have the earlier four plus one more. Really strange, but there is a color hierarchy...and black, white, and red are at the top.

Taravat Talepasand: Drawings

Yerba Buena Center for the Arts, San Francisco, through June 20.

Painting Again

Pink Toothbrush, oil on panel, 4.5 x 9 inches

Started some new still-life paintings. The last ones were miniature paintings of candy and little cakes; now I've started paintings of mints, hersheys kisses, and toothbrushes. Strangely, these things all work together. They're things for the mouth, hygiene as well as intimacy, assuming the hersheys kiss is the stand-in for the real thing. The colors are the male-female colors, pink/red and blue/green. Its the second real day of painting. I roughly laid out several small panels and will go back into them when they dry.

On a technical level, the question is always how far to push them? In the early stages, sometimes just after a minute of painting, I can have a really beautiful but really rough painting. No detail, just raw outlines and forms. As the hours go by I chisel away the rough edges and adding detail, softness, harmony. If I push it too far I lose all of the original storm, but leave it too quickly and it's not elegant enough. It's a tough balance. If I make it too refined, I will actually come back in and destroy it a little, start over. Knowing when to stop, that's the hardest thing.

The other problem I'm working out is the surface itself. My panel paintings are either on Ampersand brand boards, which are coated with a really absorbent clay mixture, or on panels I make using birch plywood coated with a traditional gesso recipe (rabbit-skin glue, zinc white powder, and ground chalk). Both of these surfaces are extremely absorbent, which means they suck in the oil of the first layer very quickly, allowing me to repaint a second and third coat in one sitting. The problem is it also seems to darken the colors as they dry, so I have to wait until the painting is dry and then repaint the lighter colors. There can also be problems of the paint layers adhering to each other.

Most painters today use acrylic gesso, which isn't nearly as absorbent, the paint stays wet on the surface and you have to paint wet into wet, I don't like this as much. I'm planning to experiment with some new surfaces soon...maybe acrylic gesso mixed with ground chalk, or the chalk sealed with linseed oil...somewhere between very absorbent and very slick would be ideal.

On cleaning

I cleaned my studio this evening -- gave it a good, thorough, deep-clean. Put away piles of materials, matboards, stretcher bars, jars of half-used turpentine. Scrubbed the wood floors on my hands and knees, wiped the dust off tables, thinned the bookshelves of old reading, threw out unwanted materials, tested a new brush cleaner on some stiff brushes. It feels good to clean. This time I did it slowly, without rushing. I'm trying not to rush so much. Life is better when you go slow, but going slow is very difficult.

I haven't painted much since my show opened a few weeks ago. Putting up a show is exhausting, and afterwards I need time off. I worked on my construction job, I spent time with family and friends, I went out a lot. And I met a girl. There was a new girl in my life for two weeks, I liked her, and then yesterday that short chapter ended. Cleaning really feels good. The critics say it's procrastinating, something to make you feel good about not doing your real work, but I think cleaning is part of my real work. Cleaning is the preparation, the first step in the process. Clean and clear the room so you can clear and calm the mind, to prepare for making new work. Cleaning is also good when things end. Maybe what I mean is, cleaning is the thing in between, the bridge between the old and the new.

I'm ready to get back to painting. I have some ideas, but I don't want to jinx them. Not a big idea, but many little ideas. I'll start with the little ones and go from there. I'm taking a break from birds and water and wetlands, going back to another direction.