The essay was charming and blunt and heartrending and hopeful. Loraine described her early dating life (men, though reluctantly), her awakening to her lesbianism in college, her first love, how she was compelled by law and custom to keep this part of herself secret from her family and friends. Mindful that gay people could be fired from their jobs, and also having felt the sting from close friends who preferred not to know the truth about her and her “roommate”, she and her partner of 44 years never said a word about their relationship. They even kept separate bedrooms for show.
Can you imagine? When my parents celebrated their 40th wedding anniversary last year, family members flew across the country to be there. Speeches were made. Strangers congratulated them. And Loraine and her dear Mary were in hiding for 44 years. I find that terribly sad.
But, she writes:
Finally, after almost nine years since my beloved partner’s death, I am able to do what I could never have braved in earlier years: present myself herewith to the world as a lesbian, along with all the women who ask to be judged by the full facet of our characters.
Why am I now able to speak the unspoken? A friend at the retirement community where I live recently came out in the local and national newspapers. When I saw her do that, I thought, for heaven’s sake, nobody can fire me, I’m 88 years old, my parents are gone.
Still, I was frightened. It took me several days to put this essay in the mailbox. I owe a lot of credit to people who are comfortable enough in their own skins to say, “This is who I am.”
And so she came out. She said “This is who I am.” (At age 88! In a national magazine!)
Loraine’s essay shook me. She had put her finger on thoughts and feelings and fears that are so universal. I cried, then I tore the article out of the magazine and put it away.
Periodically, I would re-read it, cry again, and put it back. Finally, after two and a half years of this, I decided to look Loraine up, to let her know how much her article had moved me. I wrote her a short note of appreciation, thanked her for her courage, and shared some of the things we had in common–most notably that I too had “the most loved and loving, giving, understanding and delightful partner imaginable”.
Imagine the thrill when Loraine wrote back! We’ve been corresponding now for some months, and she even mailed me a DVD of a wonderful documentary that was made about her. It’s called 88 Years in the Closet and was included in quite a few film festivals, won an award for Best Documentary, and aired on PBS. As you can see from the trailer, Loraine is a delight! And her story is powerful.
Today, please read Loraine’s article and watch her movie to judge for yourself how far we’ve come. And please also think of our LGBT youth who have struggled with this decision and its aftermath–especially those in recent days who have been tormented and bullied to death. I do believe there is strength in numbers. Happy National Coming Out Day.
I watched a movie the other day which keeps percolating at the back of my mind…Séraphine.
She was a woman who worked very hard at manual labor during the day and painted beautiful pictures at night–sometimes all night. She had dirty hands and fingernails because she used them as painting tools. She worked on the floor; sometimes she slept there. I found it charming that, because she didn’t want to be disturbed while working, she hung a little sign from her doorknob which said “Séraphine is not accepting visitors”.
She scraped together coins to buy supplies at the local store, and was scorned by the shopkeeper whenever she came in (“You’d be better off buying coal for winter”). She rarely complained but admitted that cleaning took all of her time, time which she wanted to spend painting.
Séraphine was eccentric too: she climbed and hugged trees and made her own “energy wine”. She also made all of her paints by hand and, though no one knows her recipes (the movie claims that she used blood which she took from meat in the kitchen, candle wax from a shrine at church, and ground pigment from natural sources like leaves). She sang while she worked. The sound of her almost tuneless singing is beautiful–not in any conventional or melodious sense, but because it’s the expression of a soul at peace.
Oh, are we moved by the same spirit…the desire to turn off my cellphone so I can’t be found when I’m working…lamenting that my job takes me away from my real work…the slighting comments that every artist hears but has to tune out…the persistence of always going back to the studio even if tired or poor or depleted…the hard work of working…the joy of working…
Being an artist is still the same at heart.
The movie also shows Séraphine’s friendship with Wilhelm Uhde, a German art critic who was the first person to recognize Picasso’s talent and buy one of his paintings. (He is also known as the first to buy a Braque painting, and as the “discoverer” of Rousseau).
I appreciated this unconventional side to her: how difficult it must have been, as a single woman in a small town in the early 20th century, to befriend a single man without scandal, especially since he was renting one of the houses which she was hired to clean. On top of that, Uhde was sophisticated enough in his tastes and dress to stand out as a city-dweller in the French countryside. Also, he was German: everyone remarked on his accent; anti-German sentiment was high at that time (just before the outbreak of WW1), and in fact he was forced to flee France in the middle of the night when war did break out. He was also gay. There was nothing there that would have suggested a friendship might develop between these two, though they certainly had art and their outsider status in common.
Séraphine’s art was lush and nature-inspired but she admitted that it sometimes scared her. The leaves, flowers, and fruits are full of an insistent energy and they sprawl all over the canvas. Rather than being caught in a moment in time, they grow and move. They look like eyeballs and mouths, looking, breathing, living, demanding attention, seething, threatening to go wild.
There is beautiful cinematography in the film too: a striking shot of a black wrought-iron chair set against the snow. A night-time landscape that was so still and muted that it appeared to be an artwork; I thought it was an image of a dark, softly smudged charcoal drawing…until Séraphine walked into the frame and I realized it was a dimly lit street at night.
The shot at the end of the leafy tree alone on the hill, the slightly tilting trunk balanced by the chair Seraphine placed under it.
This is a meditative movie. It’s quiet and persistent, though not simple. Seraphine’s relationship with Uhde, her friend and patron, is complicated: they lose touch during the war but are reunited when he returns to France, sees her work exhibited at a local show and seeks her out. He provides her with a monthly income and supplies so that she can paint, but cuts her off when she spends the money frivolously at the same time the financial market crashes. She is eventually confined to an asylum and gives up painting. He upgrades her to a private room there, and pays for it, affording her some dignity in the warehouse of decay and inhumanity which those places were in the 1930s-1940s.
Though she’s no longer painting, Uhde is active in showing her work during this period. He is told not to visit, that thoughts of her old artistic life will be further upsetting to her mental health. In his autobiography, he states that she died some eight years before her real death…out of guilt? In trying to preserve a sense of dignity for her, “ending” her life before her asylum years? Obliquely stating that if not allowed to create, the artist is dead anyway?
A nice meditation on an artist’s persistence in the face of all the things that tend to conspire to get in the way of pursuing your work: life circumstances, people who at best may not understand or at worst will hate and mock, the race against time. As well as the things that can build you up: someone who understands you and your work, the need to make it, the joy in simply working.
In the movie Up in the Air, George Clooney’s character Ryan Bingham is the opposite of a corporate head-hunter: instead of recruiting people to fill positions, he fires them when their own bosses can’t face the music. He travels the country, office to office, and delivers the bad news. He is very good at what he does. He has an answer for everything, and he’s adept at knowing just what to say to tip the scale from near-meltdown to mere course correction. He lends dignity to an undignified situation.
In a great scene with J.K. Simmons, Bingham forestalls just such a meltdown by asking:
Why do kids admire athletes?
Simmons says: Because they screw lingerie models.
Bingham, authoritatively: No. That’s why WE admire athletes. Kids admire athletes because they follow their dreams.
With that, he defused the guy’s anger, got him thinking about why he hadn’t ever pursued becoming a chef, and walked away with another notch in his corporate belt. Job well done.
This scene had special relevance for me, having tried (pretty unsuccessfully) to juggle a full-time job along with a serious art career. After struggling with varying degrees of pain over this for the last two years, I came to the conclusion recently that these two things can’t coexist. Maybe they can for some people, or maybe some other jobs could have for me. But at this point in my life and in this position, it is just not working out.
My contract is about to expire and just four days later, I leave for a wonderful artist’s residency in Vermont, where I’ll have time to do nothing but paint. Although on the one hand, I’m stepping off a cliff, on the other, I’m able to go away with a clear conscience. The timing was almost preordained. So, like Ryan Bingham, I’m going to look at this as a dignified transition and get busy following my dreams.
I should have met the Reverend Howard Finster in 2000. He used to sit on his front porch in Summerville, GA once or twice a week, at a scheduled time, to make himself available to his fans. That included banjo players looking to jam, young art students, fans of the musical group REM…I didn’t realize all this was going on, and showed up on an off day. But I did get to spend time on his property, which he named “Paradise Gardens”. If you ever go to visit, which I recommend, you’ll walk around with your mouth wide open most of the time. I should explain how it looked, and what it is. Paradise Gardens is an ode to joy. It is gleeful in celebrating details. It is evidence of a life lived.
The Reverend Howard Finster was a self-taught folk artist. He never went to art school, in fact never went past grade school. His enthuasiasms ran far and wide; he had strong feelings for Coca Cola, Elvis, George Washington, and God, and memorialized them frequently in his artwork. He began receiving visions and making artwork based on them and was in fact making art right up until he died in 2001. His grandson, who was overseeing Paradise Gardens on the day I visited this summer, was kind enough to tell me that Howard died peacefully in his sleep.
He numbered each piece (he made about 50,000) and often included a written message or testimony of some kind as well. I have an original Howard Finster painting which I treasure, and he painted and wrote on both sides of it.
The thing I love about Howard is that everything was worthy of being looked at and engaged with. A better word for it is “Loved”. He transformed his property into Paradise Gardens by seeing beauty in every detail and deciding to memorialize it. He essentially painted everything that didn’t move: the sides of the house, the cars in the carport, pieces of wood or rock lying around. Other items–old brooches, pictures, toys, tools, broken pieces of glass and mirror–were set in concrete in beautiful patterns or grouped by theme and used to pave walkways all through his backyard. If they weren’t put on the ground in a walkway, they were built up into a tower of some kind. He liked towers and spires. Many of the walkways and other art have been removed and placed in the the High Museum of Art‘s permanent collection, in order to save them from exposure to the humid Georgia weather.
My favorite walkway involved all kinds of old rusty tools, arranged in patterns and facing off with each other in a nice little themed composition that you stepped on as you strolled among the artwork and shade. You can see a bullet in this one, but another favorite (also gone) involved antique pistols set into concrete, facing each other and forever dueling. I recall a bust of Abraham Lincoln in that panel too; an ode to the Civil War.
Nothing escaped his gaze or desire to show it off. A dentist (whom he thoughtfully and duly credited by name) sent him old plaster molds of bites and jaws and implants; Howard made bas-reliefs out of them, and plaques which he inscribed and hung around the grounds.
He gratefully received anything and everything that people wanted to give him: the teeth, jars of what seem to be beans which are now impounded in a concrete wall, commemorative plates from the gift shop of a certain university in Pennsylvania. And then he made something out of it, often a tower, or an adorned pile of concrete that reached toward the sky.
Even his garbage was seen as a gift, and worthy of being commemorated for posterity. There are several gazebo-like glass-enclosed structures which showcase some of his collections. My very favorite featured dozens of pencil stubs that were too small to be held in the hand any longer, hundreds of squeezed-out tubes of paint along with dozens of gallon paint cans (for good measure), brushes that had no bristles or damaged bristles or caked-together dried-out bristles. Broken tools. Dented aerosol cans. Items covered in paint that were no longer able to serve their original purpose. Basically anything you can think of that could have been used to make a piece of artwork and gave up its life in the service of that goal. He saved all of these things, arranged them around the inside of the gazebo, and attached them with staples, glue, hung them with string or otherwise put them on display so that they could be admired from outside, through the glass. All along the top of the structure, on the support beams, Howard painted “40 YEARS OF WORE OUT ART MATERIALS”. It was gorgeous. That’s a guy who works hard and admires what he’s done. He used every one of those things down to the nub. And when they couldn’t be used anymore, he made more art with them.
It’s usually a surprise to look inside anything in Paradise Gardens–more beautiful than you were ready for.
Here’s another gazebo that’s beautiful in its simplicity. Everything round, and shapes playing off each other and reflecting the sunlight.
The Bottle Chapel is a new favorite of mine. Each bottle has a few marbles in it and looks like magic when the light comes through.
The group REM, who are from Georgia, made a music video in Finster’s backyard: Radio Free Europe, by REM . That was in about 1983 and you can really get an idea of the density of the backyard, and the sense of exploration and imagination needed to walk around. The old days…
I wanted to come back and show my niece and nephew, who live in Georgia and who are both collectors and creators. I remembered feeling exhilarated and charmed ten years ago, walking through his sacred space and seeing the connections he made between strange ideas and shapes, and feeling how happy and joyful he was in linking all those
things together. It is a space that’s filled with love and imagination and curiosity, and I wanted them to feel that too and remember what it feels like. And to remember it even after they grow up. It was a good time for me to be reminded too.
My nephew, who is five, and I gazed quietly into a dark barn that was piled high with tools, various items, boards, etc etc–what might be junk to many people, but was once lovingly donated or collected, and are still patiently waiting their turn to be transformed into something unexpected and beautiful.
My nephew said “It’s so sad”. A pause. “All those art materials and he never got to use them”. That was exactly what I was thinking. But it’s not a sad place by any means. It’s a place where everything is appreciated, celebrated, and loved– every last one of those things.
I’m very excited to announce that I’ve been awarded an Artist’s Grant from the Vermont Studio Center, which will fund a residency there this fall. I’ll be there for one month, October-November, and will do nothing but paint! Meals are provided, as well as a room and a studio for painting. This is great–stay tuned for updates!
My sketchbook contains entries about my daily life during one point in time. Watercolor, collaged scraps of paper, sketches, and handwritten entries tell the stories of personal relationships, life in New York City, and a business trip to the Middle East.
As the sketchbook evolves, whimsical images become more stark and expressive, and humorous observations become news briefs. These topics include the New York State Legislature’s initial (negative) vote on gay marriage in 2009, news about an actress who came out of the closet, and bombings in Afghanistan involving my brother and sister-in-law. By linking my personal anecdotes with news on the national and international stage, the sketchbook ties my own stories to larger concerns such as the war on terrorism and the LGBT community’s struggle for full equality.
Artists often wonder if their own concerns matter to anyone else. Creating this sketchbook while residing in another country allowed me to observe my home culture through another culture’s lens. Encountering my own fears and concerns in others validated them. As I reflected on my personal experiences as a gay person, and worried about my family’s safety in a war zone, I was confronted with the concerns of an entire LGBT culture, and the fears of military families everywhere. This experience verified for me that the big issues of the world are made up of the personal concerns of many individuals.
The sketchbook makes the case that the personal is not only important, but universal. The personal is also political.
In case anyone is wondering how the silent auction went, my little bird was bid on, and went to a nice home at the end of the night!
The Garden Party was a success and will be remembered for the gale-force winds that didn’t bring the tents down! A storm was raging, but all was cozy inside the art and food tents. A “ferry service” was established between the two, guided by quick, friendly folks with umbrellas. A really nice way to honor and support the New Bedford Art Museum and its mission–keep it in mind for next year!
I prepared my wood panel with paint and roughed up the surface a little.
Then I broke out the Sculpey–a material I’d never used before (even mixed-media artists can be provincial)…it comes in different colors which I loved, and it doesn’t shrink in the oven. Regular oven–no kiln necessary! It smelled something like Play-Do, which kind of ruined the illusion for me, but never mind.
I used the Sculpey to construct my nest and bird. Each little pellet of the nest, which in nature is mud, was rolled and shaped individually with Sculpey. And then, even with the 100-degree temperatures and high humidity, I baked them in the oven–see what we do for our art!
Then comes the part where I attach the parts to the wood panel, using paint and matte medium as the glue that will hold it all together. Dried grass, which I collected from the park, was strategically poked among the nest pellets in order to replicate the look of the Barn Swallow nest. I also found a real little feather which I placed near the top of the nest.
Much consultation of photos of Barn Swallows, as well as the Audubon print which inspired it all–this, to get the colors of the feathers right, as well as the feather pattern.
I wanted to recreate the feeling of how the swallows choose to build their nest in close quarters–up high near the roof of a barn, under the eaves, cramped in near the storm gutters, etc–so I used a small piece of wood and placed it just above the nest. This bird would have to wriggle carefully in and out of the nest just like the real ones do.
And here it is. Inspired by John James Audubon and in support of the New Bedford Art Museum.
I’ve been working on a painting which will be a donation for the New Bedford Art Museum, and I’ve enjoyed the project so much that I wanted to share some thoughts on its evolution.
This project is in support of the New Bedford Art Museum and their mission (read more about it here) and is based on the current exhibition called Taking Flight! The Birds of John James Audubon from the Collection of the New Bedford Free Public Library.
The idea was create a piece–any kind of piece–abstract, figurative, a painting, drawing, sculpture, mobile, etc etc–based on one of the prints in the exhibition. A wide-open proposition!
I chose the Barn Swallow.
One of the reasons I chose this particular bird was because of fond memories of watching a nest of swallows on my patio in Taormina, Sicily.
Every morning, I would spend time on the patio, watching them. I was really taken with that nest, and how it was a little masterpiece in and of itself. It was placed very close to the ceiling, and the swallows really had to maneuver to get themselves in and out of such a tight space.
The nest was clearly made from small chunks of mud, which were in some kind of pellet form, and somehow pasted together to make this little fortress. I don’t even know how they found or made mud–Sicily is an arid climate! I wondered if the swallows carried the mud in their mouth and regurgitated it, the way they feed their young. And how did they stick it to the wall? I would have loved to have seen them actually build the nest but no matter what, I was hooked and watched them every morning. They were always peeking out, then wriggling to the edge and flying away. Then coming right back, and wriggling back inside there, peeking out again, repeat.
Those swallows might have been cliff swallows. One difference I noted between the swallows I came to love in Sicily, and the Barn Swallow in the Audubon print was the grass in the Audubon nest. I knew that my piece would also contain grass, to be true to the representation of the American bird, and also to give me the chance to use a lot of different materials in my piece. I decided to really push it.
In this vein, I also decided to work more sculpturally, to expand on the textures and bas relief that I often use and just go all-out in that regard, while still keeping it essentially a painting.
I also wanted to work figuratively on this piece, rather than abstractly–something I haven’t done in years! The reason is that I wanted to take advantage of working outside my body of work and ideas. I could have made an abstract colorful painting (as I usually do) inspired by a bird–but I wondered to myself how it would be distinguished from any other painting I’m working on at the moment. I definitely wanted a very clear distinction between this piece and the rest of my current body of work…partly because they’re very different ideas, and partly to give myself a challenge. What the heck! So I thought that leaving abstraction behind for a while would be a good idea for this piece.
And in keeping with this theme of mixing it up and stretching myself, I had to temporarily move my studio to the kitchen table because of an air conditioning malfunction at the studio. You can see it was quite a production!
Stay tuned for the next report!
And if you haven’t gotten your tickets for the Garden Party yet, you can get them here. My painting will be part of the silent auction!
New Orleans has been one of my very favorite cities ever since I visited it on a road trip. I fell in love immediately with the look and feel of the city: the often-extravagant decorations of balconies and yards (as a native New Englander, this still feels deliciously exotic to me every time I encounter it)–everything from curlicued metalwork on the balconies, to pink flamingoes arrayed in a tableau in a yard.
The palette of the architecture–deep reds, salmon, pale pink and orange and green.
The sight of balconies that looked directly over the street, where people could call up or down to each other, and where you were never far from the action.
The historical blend of languages and cultures which flavor everything from the music, slang, architecture, spirituality and food in such different ways.
The folklore: one of my favorite stories is the worship of “St. Expedite”–for when you need something in a hurry. This “saint” came to be worshipped when a box of religious statuary arrived from abroad with an unrecognizable statue inside. On the outside of the box was stamped the word “EXPEDITE”–a shipping instruction, possibly in Spanish–but this was seized on as the name of the statue inside! And he is now revered in New Orleans.
Cemeteries above ground.
The birthplace of jazz.
The best damn drink I ever had.
The languorous pace which allows you the time to savor everything, even the contradictions.
So I was extremely saddened to see the horrible images of what was happening down there in New Orleans, during and after Katrina. I was all the way up in Massachusetts, though I wanted desperately to help. As a student, I had no money, and no skills that would have been useful in an emergency like that. But what I had was art. I got some of my own paintings together, and collected artwork from students at UMass Dartmouth, from faculty, local artists–anyone who would listen to my spiel and agree to help out.
The response was astounding. Students handed in projects to me instead of to their teachers. Established artists told me to get whatever I could for their piece–some specifically requested that it go far above their usual asking price because their collectors would pay more for charity, and some gave me permission to drop the price as far as it needed to go in order to sell, so that they could generate even the smallest amount to send to New Orleans. With all these donations, I organized The Red Cross Art Sale.
I had alot of help–others made t-shirts, posters, staffed the sale tables, and we even were featured on the silly little Paul Revere sign along the highway in New Bedford.
We raised $3575 and sent every penny to New Orleans. That was a drop in the bucket compared to what they needed, but to this day, it is still one of my proudest achievements.
Since then, I’ve also donated artwork to the Gloria Steinem Art Auction, which supported the Women’s Studies program at UMass Dartmouth. This gave me the opportunity to meet the wonderful Ms. Steinem in person, as well as the satisfaction of supporting this good cause.
I’m working on a project right now that will support the New Bedford Art Museum. It’s a piece that’s quite different from my usual work, but I’m enjoying working on it.
If you’re going to donate artwork, make sure you like the cause and that it will be supported sufficiently by your donation to make it worth your while. And, if you’re going to do it, go all out! Make it a great piece, not one that you do in a hurry, or want to get rid of.
The satisfaction that comes from strengthening our community and doing something positive that benefits others is very fulfilling, on a deep level. It feels good to contribute, but it’s even better when it comes from your own personal work.
I had an experience this week where an exhibition opportunity fell apart because the gallery owner would not provide me with a contract. After emailing back and forth and finally speaking on the phone, I withdrew my work from the exhibition and I don’t regret it for a second.
When I said I wanted to understand the terms under which we’d be working together, the owner repeatedly replied: “You either trust me or you don’t”. I offered alternatives, such supplying a sample contract myself, but she interrupted repeatedly, raised her voice, and tried to intimidate and guilt me into doing the show on her terms. And by that I mean unknown terms, since I couldn’t get the information from her.
Underneath it all was a confidence on her part that I wouldn’t ever say no, because the myth of artists is that we are so hungry for any opportunity to connect with the outside world that we’ll give up any semblance of professional behavior in order to have a few crumbs thrown our way. But I said no, and I think I shocked the hell out of her!
I hope all artists realize they’re worth more than that. We are entitled to professional dealings with other professionals. That includes following standard business practices–such as getting contracts in writing–and if you’re not being treated professionally, the safest thing you can do is walk away. If that gallery owner was that adamant and supercilious in what’s supposed to be the honeymoon stage, I can only imagine how difficult things could’ve gotten if she’d sold work and owed me money, or when it came time to get the paintings back to me.
Caroll Michels and Jackie Battenfield are two artist-advocates who believe in getting it in writing, so don’t just take my word for it! (How to Survive & Prosper as an Artist is a classic, and The Artist’s Guide is a new favorite, used in many college classes now).
I thanked her at the end of the call, when it was clear there was no room for any professional discussion on this topic, and said goodbye. (Always take the high road; my mother taught me that). And now I’m sleeping like a baby. If I’d trusted my work to her under these terms, I know I couldn’t say that.
The current incarnation of this website is an experiment. And an odyssey. I started out over a year ago to get a website up and running and ran into a lot of roadblocks: the designer who took my money and was never heard from again. (Don’t worry–chased him down and got it back!). The others who flaked out and were never heard from again, but had luckily not gotten around to taking my money. The high cost. The variables and unknowns, such as how would I be able to make changes to the site in an economical way, and on my timetable?
Although I’m not a high-tech person, I realized the best way to go– for me–was to learn something about website design so that I could control more of the process.
I used WP Folio, made by and for artists, and Word Press, and have been teaching myself the ropes. My new mantra is “Release Early and Often!” which means I’m putting versions of the site out there earlier than I necessarily want to, and before I think they’re ready…but if I didn’t do it this way, nothing would EVER get out there because perfectionism gets in the way! There’s always something to fix, but I’ll do it as I go along.
So this is a challenge in many ways, one that so far has spawned more than a few tears but also some real fist-pumping moments. I figure I know just enough to be dangerous, so stay tuned!