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.

On Painting a Cormorant

The finished painting, Mate, 12 x 12 inches, oil on panel. Cormorants get that bright blue/turquoise color inside their beaks and tongues during mating season.

I'm painting a portrait. I'm painting a portrait of a cormorant and I can't paint a cormorant because I don't know what it's like to be a cormorant. What is a cormorant anyway, I mean what is it like to be a cormorant? A cormorant is a very strange, often overlooked sea bird. It is black as night with fierce blue eyes and star-shaped pupils, it lives on rocks and flies like a duck and dives under huge waves hunting fish, it swims well but doesn't shed water like other sea birds, so it's often seen perched on a rock with its wings open, air drying. It has a long, calloused, flaking beak that tilts skywards like its waiting for something from above, it lives in small flocks but doesn't seem to make any sounds, and it hunts alone. Impossible to relate to? I saw many dead ones on the beach this summer, they're suffering from some illness, or too few fish in the sea. Last year I painted one on a rock by the sea in the evening, but a close-up portrait is different, and I'm not sure it will work.

My cormorant is a he, that much i know, and with that upturned beak he seems arrogant, but also a little dumb unfortunately. The painting remains unfinished because I don't get him yet, can't relate. I started the painting last summer and had it in my show this spring, but I never liked it so I took it off the rack on Tuesday and scraped it down and repainted. He's sharper now but still glaring at me with this dumb vacant stare. I'll scrape him down again, turn up those turqoise eyes, and give him the white breeding plumes they get in mating season, maybe a blade of nesting grass hanging from his beak. That could work, we'll see. I might have to abandon it, I threw out a painting of a bluebird last week that wasn't working. Throwing out a painting is also a way of finishing it, strangely.

The finished painting Woodpecker, 12 x 12 inches, oil on panel. It went through half a year of revisions.

I have ten, twenty, thirty mostly-finished paintings, my studio is full, I start them and I restart them but finishing a painting is very difficult. Many I could get away with as they are but they're just not quite good enough, I mean, good enough just isn't good enough, you know? Very frustrating, very difficult to finish a painting. I have five or six birds that could be done but aren't, including a woodpecker, but who can relate to a woodpecker? It's just too far outside the human experience to pound your face into a tree. Or is it all too familiar, at least for the naturally stubborn amongst us? Yes, the woodpecker I can finish. Then I've got ten small candy paintings that some of them need a brighter glaze, I've got a pile of watercolors I don't know what to do with, and I've got a few large-scale figure paintings, one from Africa, one from Sweden, these I really want to work on. A lot to do.

Back in the USA

I'm back in the States, suburban Maryland for the time being...

Africa was a little more interesting, Paris a lot more fun.  

Not feeling the holiday spirit yet.

Europe

I survived Africa. One week ago I stepped off a bus in Paris, huddled against the cold, groggy in the pre-dawn, said a silent thank you and thought yes, yes I did it! I finished, drew a rough wavy line over thousands of miles of African savannah, came out the other end three months later and a few pounds lighter, and it was done, really really done, I was euphoric. I realize this sounds absurd, but the first thing I did that morning was walk through the Arc De Triomphe like I was Napoleon or something, like I was in a one-man parade, and damn it felt good, felt good just to be back, to be on the other side.

The second thing I did, at ten in the morning, was to catch a movie. There were four choices, Keira Knightly was in one and that's really good enough for me. Hadn't seen a movie since August and I don't care if 'The Dutchess' is a chick flick, I sat back and relaxed and its just so good to be back in civilization.

Paris, Paris the colonial motherland, Paris the center, Paris with its grand boulevards, its imperial architecture, its vastness and beauty, its winter chill and beautiful nights, what a shock, what a wonderful shock after three months of mud huts and straw roofs! I love it, I love places like this, I love glorious monuments to glorious deeds, love big museums, love the grandness, love the celebration. I found a place to stay, slept 12 hours, found a cheerful friend to share the day with, then walked all over town, visited old favorites at the Louvre, and can you ever get enough Delacroix and Rubens? I stayed in Paris just two days, then on to Antwerp and now Vienna, and it turns out that Europe is just one big party, it's the after-Africa party and it's the best party I've ever been to. The last five days have been a blur of smoky bars, throbbing punk clubs, great people, new friends and old friends, quite a few too many beers, a few sunrises, and really I havent partied this hard in years, if ever.

I came to Antwerp to see Rubens' triptychs in the cathedral -- well worth the visit to be sure --and found to my surprise that Antwerp is a wonderfull and strange little town, a dream of old old buildings, cobblestone streets, beautiful lights from hundreds of little bars and restaurants reflecting in the rain. The bars are full of a sturdy, hard-drinking, hard-smoking, fun-loving people, and its like everyone's living in a Breughel painting, a modern Breughel painting with lots of little dramas and it's great. Met a friend of a friend at an artworld afterparty, caught up with an old college roommate, met some new friends too, and each afternoon woke up with an anti-hangover, feeling better than ever. For sure I'll be back one day.

Vienna is a bit like Paris, it was the capital of a grand empire and all the old emperial glamour remains, huge palaces, gilded statues, wide avenues, trolleys, all the good stuff. I've been staying here with a painter friend, and in addition to the museums we got a taste of the city's late night scene and stumbled home two nights in a row after some good times. In the museums Egon Schiele stands as the champion, not all his work but the big paintings are simply raw. Next to him Klimt is a little boring, a little too-fine, the younger colleaugue just hit harder. From the Renaissance, Perugino is a new surprise, he made such sweet, lovely figures, and Raphael always makes me happy. Titian is solid and strong as ever but Caravaggio disappointed, as did all his followers. Rubens rushed through more than half his paintings but the ones he cared to finish are stunning.

I've got a few more days in Europe, then the party's really over and Michael its time to go home, home to the USA. Can't say I'm looking forward to it, but I do miss friends and family and the holidays should bring a cheer. Then I'll jump back in the game, not quite sure how or where but I'll let you know.

Leaving Africa

I spent about a week getting from Timbuktou to Dakar and, excepting one particularly long bus-ride, this last leg of the trip was good fun. For the first time I met up with other travelers, downed some good beers, ate in restaurants, and got to know some interesting characters.

I met Jeff, an English Iraq-vet and security contractor who was taking a 2-year spin around the globe on a motorcycle (he looked and acted exactly like that soldier from the cable show Rome, Vorinus I think?); I met his companion Mark, an SF vet like myself, and we agreed to meet up for a beer in March; I met Mike, a long-bearded Scottish postman who endured the ride across Senegal with me; I met Paul, who makes his living buying and trading Chicago White-Sox tickets like it's some kind of stock; I met Ragnar, a young Norwegian girl who amazingly is on her way overland from Norway to the the Congo (yes, she knows there's a war there) and who had earlier traveled for three years across Asia, including Afganistan in 2004.

In Bamako, the capital of Mali, I started the last punishment of this trip: a 24-hour busride to Dakar that took 55 hours. It was awful, I don't care to write too much about it except to say we were endlessly delayed by police, 'gendarmerie', toll officialls, soldiers, and that we spent one night outdoors on a concrete pad at a busstation and I woke up with over fifty mosquito bites, a second night rudely awakened by over-eager toll officials, and that it was hot, overcrowded, they stored gasoline in the aisles, and my only luck was meeting up with Mike for part of the journey, the aforementioned Scottish postman. To give you some idea of corruption and inefficiency in Africa, the bus paid over 200 dollars in bribes to dozens of uniformed officials in both Mali and Senegal, and still our bags were searched and id's checked. The road in some places -- that's the main road between the capital cities of two nations-- was so riddled with potholes that we spent hours at a time cruising at five to ten mph.

Now I'm in Dakar, where the trip ends. I met my Dad here a week ago, he was on his way back from a business trip in South Africa and me on the way back from a marginally-business trip, and the timing worked out well, and it's been great to see a familar face and have good conversations and catch up after so long.

Although we're heading to the airport tonight I in essence checked out of Africa three days ago, when we checked into a swank lux hotel on the outskirts of town, complete with 50-meter swimming pool, chaise lounges, coctails with the lime placed just so, you get the idea. We also had excursions to St. Louis, the earliest French colonial town in West Africa, and a trip to the Parque National de Ouiseaux de Djoudj. The park is a sanctuary for migrating birds in a huge wetlands by the Senegal River, and from a boat we saw beautiful cormorants catching fish, a huge colonly of pelicans, a lone pelican (they fly solo when wounded or sick), lone herons, black and white egrets, ducks, eagles, and the 'Sacred Ibis' which looked just like an ancient Egyptian sculpture in the Palace of the Legion of Honor back in SF (both the bird and the sculpture are extraordinary). We also saw a big bad crocodile.

I'm leaving Africa now, leaving tired and happy, looking forward to coming home, grateful for the things I've seen, and thinking that one day, a long time from now, I might just be back.

(But before I return, a quick stop in Europe.)