The "Irascibles" and Creative Principle

The last couple of days I have been thinking about the unrecorded and idiomatic conversations of a group of young painters as they sat drinking (heavily) in the Cedar Street Tavern. Of course, these conversations or impassioned arguments took place in the 1940's and 50's in Greenwich Village. This was at a time when hardly anyone paid the slightest attention to what was eventually labeled "abstract expressionism" (a label they didn't like). Sitting around the table you might find Mark Rothko, Franz Kline, Jackson Pollack, Robert Motherwell, Willem deKooning and others of the now famous New York School (a term coined by Motherwell). I tried to imagine Pollack and de Kooning going at it. What concepts were so crucial to these artists that would fight about them? And by the way, who were these guys and why did they seek each other's company at the Cedar? And what held them together and drove them apart?

The Life article was conceived after the group of artists who were labeled "the irascibles" protested the Metropolitan's "American Art Today" exhibition in the May 22, 1950 issue of The New York Times. Artists in the photo were: Willem de Kooning, Adolph Gottlieb, Ad Reinhardt, Hedda Sterne, Richard Pousette-Dart, William Baziotes, Jackson Pollock, Clyfford Still, Robert Motherwell, Bradley Walker Tomlin, Theodoros Stamos, Jimmy Ernst, Barnett Newman, James Brooks and Mark Rothko. The photo and article on the "Irascibles" was published in the Jan. 15, 1951 Issue of LIFE. 

The simple answer might be that the Cedar was the closest bar to Robert Motherwell's studio and the drinks were cheap. Motherwell is an important figure in this drama and his writings and interviews shed light on the above questions (note: he was 25 when he moved to NYC). But before I go any further, what conceptions do you have about these artists? Are they stereotypical? Were these guys all drunken antisocial pain-in-the-ass egotists? Let's take Robert Motherwell for example.

Motherwell attend Stanford, got his Ph.D. in philosophy at Harvard, and also studied at Columbia where he was encouraged to pursue painting. This guy was smart and articulate. He later was influenced by Roberto Matta and the surrealist's desire to tap into the unconscious mind for inspiration – creating a new aesthetic based on automatism "automatic drawing" or free association.

Motherwell presents the situation in the early years, "what I realized was that Americans potentially could paint like angels but that there was no creative principle around, so that everybody who liked modern art was copying it. Gorky was copying Picasso. Pollock was copying Picasso. de Kooning was copying Picasso. I mean I say this unqualifiedly. I was painting French intimate pictures or whatever. And all we needed was a creative principle, I mean something that would mobilize this capacity to paint in a creative way, and that's what Europe had that we hadn't had; we had always followed in their wake. And I thought of all the possibilities of free association—because I also had a psychoanalytic background and I understood the implications—might be the best chance to really make something entirely new which everybody agreed was the thing to do."

Here's the part that gets interesting. Motherwell speaks about the possible genesis of the New York School, "Matta wanted to start a revolution, a movement, within Surrealism. He asked me to find some other American artists that would help start a new movement. It was then that Baziotes and I went to see Pollock and de Kooning and Hofmann and Kamrowski and Busa and several other people. And if we could come with something. Peggy Guggenheim who liked us said that she would put on a show of this new business. And so I went around explaining the theory of automatism to everybody because the only way that you could have a movement was that it had some common principle. It sort of all began that way."

What was the "creative principle" that united these very diverse painters? I believe it was the recognition of a mystical spiritual reality which was they deemed valuable and accessible. So valuable that they wanted to reflect it in new ways. Now, they may have spoken about it in different terms and the form of expression it manifested was unique to the individual. My guess is that they probably didn't quite understand it but they felt it. Could it be that they were arguing about a single reality? And, their conceptual framework was fractionated or compartmentalized resulting in a conflict of how the parts fit together? They did have differing points of view! Ultimately, they knew they were all part of a new awakening – where metaphorically, paint could be endowed with meaning. The creative principle (in my mind) was that material things are symbolic of invisible realities. These realities can be felt emotionally, meditated upon, and inspire rational thought. 

Sidebar: Let's not forget a practical aspect of this togetherness – Peggy Guggenheim was going to give them a show. Money and fame can also be a powerful stimulus! Now, back to our more important theme of abstraction and meaning.

Motherwell provides us with insight in to this concept, "... it became very clear to me that what structure is the relations among the elements and that elements related are meaningful. Which is to say that abstract structures can be meaningful. And for most artists without such an intellectual background in those days they were very dubious about making abstractions just for fear that they really didn't mean anything. But I knew metaphysically that by nature they meant something, so that I never had the inhibition about. I mean where most artists of my generation are older it was a moral crisis to move from figure drawing and all the things that one had started into abstraction. But I took to it like a duck to water."

Note: there were opposing views to Motherwell's that I can't fit into this post.

So let's get back to my imaginary argument. Jackson Pollack was recounting the important abstract painters and he left de Kooning off the list. When asked why, Pollack referred to de Kooning as a "French" painter. This sounds like a derogatory comment but it may not be. It must be remembered that these guys were competitors – e.g. when hearing of Pollack's death, de Kooning said, "it's over, I'm number one." What Pollack may have meant by "French" was his way of putting down de Kooning's process. While Pollack and other abstract painters were mining the depths of their inner selves, de Kooning was abstracting from a figurative/natural source – like the French impressionists. This was a philosophical point of difference of inspiration.  This important distinction again is illustrated in a meeting between Pollack and Hans Hofmann. He asked Jackson, "do you work from nature?" Since there were no still lifes or models around and Jackson’s answer was, 'I am nature.' Indicating that his source was himself and not the natural world. This statement can easily be confused as an egotistical response. However, I see it as a process statement. Pollack and de Kooning may have been competitors but they were also compatriots. In may have been in the Cedar Tavern that Pollack confesses to de Kooning, "you know more, but I feel more."

Pollack, like Motherwell, was drawn to the invisible world of the self - both feelings and thought. In 1939, Pollock began visiting a Jungian analyst to treat his alcoholism, and his analyst encouraged him to create drawings. These would later feed his paintings, and they shaped Pollock's understanding of his pictures not only as outpourings of his own mind, but expressions of modern society. 

Well have I completely bored you? I don't know how to end this post. I can tell you that the "creative principle" is alive in my work. The possible difference between the so called New York School and myself is that I believe what generates the emotional and meaningful response is the soul's metaphorical recognition of the attributes of God in art and nature. Process doesn't matter – it's a distinction not worthy of argument.

How do you know when it's done?

A few days ago, I was having lunch with Tony (the youngest brother of my good friend Jerry Infantino). Tony was recalling the time, many years ago, when Jerry and I were art students. We both were working on abstract paintings in his backyard when his father came home. He asked me, "How do you know when it's done?" Tony got a kick out of that and it stuck in his mind all these years.

"How do you know when it's done?" is a question that deserves consideration. Some may quickly lump it into the same category as "how long did it take?" or other common art questions. However, "how do you know when it's done?" is a deeply profound question. On the surface, it is usually jokingly asked by someone unfamiliar with abstraction and whose mindset requires some form of metrics to gage completeness. For example, if painting a portrait, a likeness might signal that it is close to being finished or a pink center might indicate that your steak is done. The problem is that the abstract painter has no GPS to tell him where he is or how far he has to go. There are no signposts or reference points. He cannot look up from the canvas to see if the shadow or shape is correct. It is a realm where intuition is your guide. A uncharted wilderness of color and line, composition and configuration, of materials and texture, and of brushwork and technique.

To me the answer to "how do you know when it's done?" has to do with the process of abstract painting itself and the nature of perfection. To address this question, it requires the use of metaphor and a little patience.

The conscious or unconscious reality of emotions and thoughts is connected with everything in life including art. When art achieves a certain quality our nerves become effected and we have an emotional/intellectual response. This response can range from highly emotional (tears of joy or sadness) to the intellectual (befuddlement or insight). As a painter, my personal goal is to transport the viewer to a new world and to bring joy to the heart. To achieve this, the striving for perfection (excellence or an ideal state) is required. I must create a painting in such a way that it resonates with the world of mystery. It is like key-making without a key to copy. The creation of an original key whose surface is painstakingly configured and refined to fit into an invisible lock. A lock that opens the door to the world of the heart.

"How do you know when it's done?" When I can turn the key.

Orange, Red, Yellow

I was perusing Pinterest tonight and I came across the image I selected from a random image search to illustrate a recent post featuring Rothko's manifesto. It was Rothko's Orange, Red, Yellow, which he painted in 1961. What caught my eye was the comment under the pin: last night...sold for just under $87 million. It must have been a old post because it sold a few years ago on May 9, 2012 at Christies. It was reported that it was one of the longest bidding matches yet witnessed in a contemporary art sale (six and half minutes, wow). That Tuesday evening was a very good night for selling contemporary art. Christie's sale took in $388.5 million, a record breaking auction! By the way, the buyer's premium on the Rothko was roughly $9.2 million on top of the hammer price of $77.5 million.

The painting is obviously worth $86,882,500 million (actual price with buyer's premium). Why? Because someone was happy as a pig in paint to pay that much for it. Amazing! Do you think it was a steal or did he pay too much?

Mark Rothko, Orange, Red, Yellow

1961, Acrylic on canvas 93"x 81.25" 

Now my friend Jerry would be interested to know that the highest price paid for a contemporary painting was $160,000,000 (in May 2012 dollars). Guess who Jer? Jackson Pollack. Painted on something he must have picked up at the lumber yard. It was at a solo Pollack show at the Betty Parsons gallery in January 1949 that Alfonso Ossorio decided to purchase the painting. He paid $1,500. There are some who believe that the artist should participate in the appreciated value of their work each time it is resold. The auction house tacks on 15% but the artist gets nothing. But wonder if the painting is sold at a loss, does it work both ways? What do you think?

Jackson Pollack No. 5

1948, Oil on fiberboard 8'x4'

Meditating on Mark-Making

I find it interesting that some artists share certain graphic elements in their work. This is especially true with abstract painters. One might imagine that these commonalities might be the result of being inspired by others or even copying. That notion might be true to a small extent, however there are some aspects of the painting process integral to a collective consciousness of many abstract painters. I am specifically taking about the impulse for mark-making. Marks that range widely from recognizable symbols and letterforms to undecipherable gestural lines or graffiti-like scratches or drops. I have incorporated marks in most of my painting for decades. Marks that form patterns, marks that are derived from ancient letterforms (both mysterious and readable), marks that are unexplainable. What is behind this phenomena of mark-making in art? What possesses me to make marks? I am usually advised not to ask this kind of question – it is best not to explain I'm told. But I don't want to interpret these mark, I am interested in what inspires a group of seemingly disconnected artists to employ a common artistic language of mark-making in their work. Here are some examples of both emerging and famous artist's work to help illustrate my point about the collectiveness of mark-making (by the way, the last painting's mine).

The above examples are only a tiny representation of artwork that incorporates some form of mark-making. As I embarked on trying to understand why so many artists from all over the world are motivated to express themselves with some sort of mark-making, I felt it was necessary to establish a foundational premise to structure by thought journey. My premise is simply this: The realization that marks possess symbolic qualities beyond their gestural compositional value. It is not necessary to know what a mark symbolizes or even if there is an conscious intention behind creating it. The virtue and beauty of a symbol (mark) is that it can reflect a multitude of meanings.  Meanings that are conditioned by the experiences, culture, and degree of perception of the individual viewer.

Specially shaped marks may be identified as letters. Some letterforms have a lot in common with artist's gestural marks from a cognitive point of view. That is, if we are not of the age or location where the letterforms (symbols) originate we cannot decipher them, rendering us clueless as to their meaning. Despite this, there are some of us who can mysteriously connect with them, just like we do with artist's marks, not needing to know what they represent. Here are some marks or symbols of past ages that I can't read but they speak to me just the same.

These marks possess both meaning and aesthetic beauty. It is always a combination of the intellectual and the emotional. It is the head and heart embracing!

Continuing on my quest for deeper understanding, it seemed logical that I explore written languages. There letterforms were intentionally designed or arranged in an established order. When this occurs they increase in symbolic power – they become words. A letter has little or no meaning disconnected from a word. Words are symbols for concepts, both simple and complex. Because they are symbols they have the capacity to transmit more than one meaning depending on context. When words get organized in higher degrees, grammar and written language come into being, higher levels of communication is possible, understanding is increased and civilization advances.

Now here's a thought that thrilled me: Symbols – letters, numbers, alphabets, words, sentences, paragraphs, books, in fact all accumulated knowledge flows from a single point, which is in reality, the genesis of a mark. A tool pressing into soft clay, a quill or brush stroking papyrus, a pen contacting parchment, or my Pilot V5 fine point scratching the paper of my sketchbook – it all begins with a primal point and then flows in an infinite number of creative and symbolic directions.

Maybe this intellectual concept combined with the pure joy of creation is why I am attracted to mark-making! And possibly that's why collectively many artists (and especially children) are also attracted to it. Who can really say? Most of the time we operate on an intuitive level, we shun the reasoning of this kind of subject. We just feel it – the power of the indecipherable symbol, the cosmic metaphoric thrill of mark-making.

Labeling Art

How we think about art is of continual interest to me. For example, why is there a tendency to make a distinction between fine art and craft? Is it that something possessing a practical utility makes it less than art? Or is it just a way to classify what kind of art it is? Or does it have something to do with our definition of art in the first place?

If an ancient Egyptian were to be transport through time and visited the Metropolitan Museum in NYC, he would find a section called Egyptian Art. He would recognize the objects but he might not understand the "art" designation. All the objects displayed had a utility associated with them. However, the concept of "art" as we know it didn't exist in the ancient world. Everything had a function, it could be beautiful but it had a practical purpose. Wendell Castle's furniture is utilitarian. However in my mind, it's art even though I can sit in it.

I came across an interesting article in the New York Times, written by Stephan Hayman, entitled "Giving Meaning to 'Art'. The first part of the article sheds light on the way our conceptual framework of thought affects how we relate to a tool vs. sculpture or utilitarian object vs. work of art. The second part deals with concepts of originality that are tangential to the subject of the post, but so fascinating I included it.

The psychologist George E. Newman of the Yale School of Management studies how people use “quasi-magical thinking” to intuitively determine the value of certain objects. By analyzing celebrity auctions of John F. Kennedy or Marilyn Monroe’s personal effects, he has shown that the price of a piece of memorabilia is connected to how often it was thought to be used or touched by a famous person — as if there’s a kind of real-world value placed on a celebrity’s “essence.” 

Recently, Mr. Newman has switched his attention to the art world. In his latest paper, published last month in the journal Topics in Cognitive Science and co-authored by Daniel M. Bartels and Rosanna K. Smith, he staged a pair of experiments that show how flimsy or essential the term “art” can be.

Mr. Newman asked a group of Yale undergraduates to read a scenario about a plastic object, which a college student had made with a wax mold. In half the scenarios, the object was referred to as a tool; in the other half, it was called a sculpture. The students were told that the object was destroyed in a fire, but an exact duplicate of the original object was made using the same mold. Then they were asked whether they believed the copy was essentially the same object. Overwhelmingly, those who were told the object was a tool thought the duplicate was the same object, while those who were told it was a sculpture thought it wasn’t.

“Just labeling something as ‘art’ really changed people’s intuitions,” Mr. Newman said.

In a second experiment, the researchers showed the students an image of an original painting and said that, because of damage, a duplicate painting was commissioned, identical in every way. The researchers then manipulated facts about the original painting: that the artist had painted it himself and thought it was among his very best works, or that he thought of it as “sell-out piece,” got the idea for the design from another painter, and had an assistant execute the painting.

The level of “contagion” — the artist’s personal involvement with the original painting — influenced opinions about the duplicate. In the cases where the artist did not paint the work with his own hand or think highly of it, the participants thought there wasn’t much difference between the copy and the original. In the cases where the artist was personally invested in the original work, the copy was seen as lesser than the other. “It is a copy,” one participant said. “It has no soul.

“It’s interesting that people have pretty detailed and sophisticated theories about the things that are contributing to art’s value,” Mr. Newman said. “And moreover that those ideas have not that much to do with what the artwork actually looks like.”

The Value ($) of Art

I am continually thinking about the nature and definition of art. One aspect that intrigues me is the role fashion plays in art. Why great artists of past eras fall out of favor at times. And why all of a sudden we wake up and realize how great they really were. Take the art work of Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema for example. He was once the most successful painters of the Victorian era. He painted amazingly detailed reconstructions of life in the ancient world. His paintings were in high demand and he became the most highly-paid artist of his day. His A reading from Homer sold for $30,000 in 1903 (that's like $600,000 today). By 1960, he fell completely out of favor – his paintings selling for insultingly low prices of only few hundred dollars.

Here's the part that tickles me. Remember Allen Funt? Yes, the guy that created the TV show Candid Camera. Turns out that his house was designed in a Roman style. In the process of decorating it to fit the motif, he builds up the world's largest collection of Alma-Tadema paintings. Seems no one wanted them and they were cheap. Now the story gets better. In 1972, Funt's accountant, embezzled all of his funds and commits suicide! Leaving a once rich Mr. Funt cash poor. So what does he do? He starts selling the Alma-Tadema paintings. A painting rejected at $160 thirteen years earlier, now fetches $43,500. Sale prices reach record territory and great art saves the day.

Visit the Rochester Memorial Art Gallery and experience a Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema in the flesh. Its fabulous! Here's a few examples of his work.

Dorothy Caldwell

A while ago I opened a few boards on Pinterest. I was motivated to get my new work on line since my out of date website required a programmer to update images. I have to design a new website (by the way, I have been saying this for 3 years).  Well, I found Pinterest really fascinating – I am on it everyday. What's great is I could review different kinds of art without any effort at all. No searching for galleries online hoping to discover kindred spirits in their artist lists. In fact, all I needed to do was to follow people that shared my aesthetic. They would pin many wonderful artists that I might have never encountered searching on my own.

One such discovery is Dorothy Caldwell. Her medium is textile and she lives and works in Hastings, Ontario, Canada. Her works are abstract and if you didn't look closely you might mistake them as paintings. They are not, her works are composed with dyed fabric and stitching that resembles painterly mark making. I find her work inspiring, so I thought I'll share some examples here. Let me know what you think.