Will, the only living one I know of is Antonio Lopez Garcia. The recent dead one is Balthus. Of course, Vermeer is one of the first. He's the one that really understood composition, the same compositional sense that Hopper mastered. The thing that killed me about Hopper was you can't tell from reproductions that he can paint a surface as well as anyone. And his color sense in the actual paintings is so good I'm still half alive. I'd always thought he was a great artist but only a fair painter. I was wrong. He had it all. His paintings don't read in reproductions. The close values get blown out into a contrasty parody and none of the actual chromatic genius is there. The wall color of Nighthawks is a gorgeous pale green for instance, instead of the sickly yellow it reproduces as. This was an amazing show. (My work simply sucks in reproduction as well, so I shouldn't have been so surprised.)
Oh, Da Vinci had a few. Actually, there are dozen as we both know, but Hopper really is at my top.
Hobo Jungle
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Will
- Posts: 303
- Joined: Tue Mar 09, 2004 11:26 am
- Location: Formerly Delaware Water Gap, PA, now sweltering Miami
I always feel when I walk into the little shop that they put at the end of all the big shows that someone turned out the lights- that is the reproductions on display seem drained of all color and life. Thank God for museums where we can see the real thing. Otherwise we would have to have wealthy friends who invited us out to their great country estates on weekends.
Being an abtractionist myself, I'd have to put Matisse up there. All my teachers ( and an entire generation of artists before me) idolized Cezanne and with good reason. And don't forget Velasquez who could paint like nobody's business.
I agree about Vermeer. Years ago, when I was an art student in NYC, the Frick was free and a 10 minute walk from school, and I spent hours there looking at their Vermeers. A true genius- each mark was perfect in hue, value, and placement. He could do more with a bit of highlight than anyone before or since.
But I don't want to alienate all the hobos who think there is nothing more beautiful than a freshly painted Farmall. La beauté est dans l'oeil du spectateur.
Being an abtractionist myself, I'd have to put Matisse up there. All my teachers ( and an entire generation of artists before me) idolized Cezanne and with good reason. And don't forget Velasquez who could paint like nobody's business.
I agree about Vermeer. Years ago, when I was an art student in NYC, the Frick was free and a 10 minute walk from school, and I spent hours there looking at their Vermeers. A true genius- each mark was perfect in hue, value, and placement. He could do more with a bit of highlight than anyone before or since.
But I don't want to alienate all the hobos who think there is nothing more beautiful than a freshly painted Farmall. La beauté est dans l'oeil du spectateur.
Will
Pennsy, still the Standard, or whatever.
Pennsy, still the Standard, or whatever.
Hey, I've suffered enough damn tractors. No reason not to talk about painting for a few posts. Besides, Hopper painted LOTS of railroad images.
Will, each of the poems below represent a painter, even one you mentioned above (obviously we feel differently about him). I thought you might enjoy reading these anyway. Only a couple people have guessed all six. Alan Magee got 5. Actually, you mentioned two above.
SOME LADS
I
For two hundred years no one paid attention,
Now two hundred million dollars wouldn't buy one.
His wife had to give up his life's work
To pay the baker and butcher after he died.
He made about thirty small paintings
All near perfect--
Don't be misled by the few forgeries
(for what museum would admit to the mistake,
and accept that degree of financial loss).
Proust rose from his death bed,
Bolstered with extra morphine,
Held up by his attendant,
To view one of the pictures
At the Louvre for the last time.
It shortened his life by a month.
II
He drank a lot of pale-green absinthe,
He dipped daily at the local whorehouse,
Contracted syphilis and went mad.
Even his contemporaries (knowing) deserted him,
So he died broke and alone and unacknowledged.
For a painting that took him two days' work
He later made a nobody over seventy million dollars.
They built him a museum so big it's embarrassing:
Hey, we can all love him now.
III
He was an alcoholic,
He was adopted by a rich woman,
He pissed in her fireplace at parties,
A critic wanting to be famous told him:
Put the canvas on the floor, slop the paint around.
He liked it--no more knocking it off the easel,
Now he could paint really drunk.
Museums particularly prize the cigarette ash
Stuck in the paint, it's all just so artistic.
IV
They ignored him most of his life,
He had his first show at forty,
Truly got up to steam at sixty, still
Carried coal buckets up five flights
During the winter at eighty.
He called the successful ones around him
The bright boys, though he wasn't a talker.
Now the world loves him,
As the bright boys bore all but
That special In-crowd that is forced to like
That which the rest of us can't use.
But forget the American scene,
Look again--he painted sexuality,
He painted the introspective moment,
He painted lyrical truth.
V
He was the first personality artist,
Made too many paintings--none great,
All a mere stylistic variant
Of worn-out themes.
But he knew how to stare down the powerful
And get them lapping at his feet.
His bruised period would look best
In a bargain furniture outlet.
Stole ideas from everywhere and capitalized,
And capitalized, and capitalized.
Repeatedly told us how big his balls were,
But the truth will likely never get out.
VI
He was probably a good lad.
Painted a few nice things but
Most are embarrassingly clumsy
(clumsiness later called innovation).
Unwittingly fathered the era of talkers
With their mediocre illustrative artwork.
But it's so comforting to see things that
we could do ourselves, so they are embraced.
Real genius is just too annoying.
Will, each of the poems below represent a painter, even one you mentioned above (obviously we feel differently about him). I thought you might enjoy reading these anyway. Only a couple people have guessed all six. Alan Magee got 5. Actually, you mentioned two above.
SOME LADS
I
For two hundred years no one paid attention,
Now two hundred million dollars wouldn't buy one.
His wife had to give up his life's work
To pay the baker and butcher after he died.
He made about thirty small paintings
All near perfect--
Don't be misled by the few forgeries
(for what museum would admit to the mistake,
and accept that degree of financial loss).
Proust rose from his death bed,
Bolstered with extra morphine,
Held up by his attendant,
To view one of the pictures
At the Louvre for the last time.
It shortened his life by a month.
II
He drank a lot of pale-green absinthe,
He dipped daily at the local whorehouse,
Contracted syphilis and went mad.
Even his contemporaries (knowing) deserted him,
So he died broke and alone and unacknowledged.
For a painting that took him two days' work
He later made a nobody over seventy million dollars.
They built him a museum so big it's embarrassing:
Hey, we can all love him now.
III
He was an alcoholic,
He was adopted by a rich woman,
He pissed in her fireplace at parties,
A critic wanting to be famous told him:
Put the canvas on the floor, slop the paint around.
He liked it--no more knocking it off the easel,
Now he could paint really drunk.
Museums particularly prize the cigarette ash
Stuck in the paint, it's all just so artistic.
IV
They ignored him most of his life,
He had his first show at forty,
Truly got up to steam at sixty, still
Carried coal buckets up five flights
During the winter at eighty.
He called the successful ones around him
The bright boys, though he wasn't a talker.
Now the world loves him,
As the bright boys bore all but
That special In-crowd that is forced to like
That which the rest of us can't use.
But forget the American scene,
Look again--he painted sexuality,
He painted the introspective moment,
He painted lyrical truth.
V
He was the first personality artist,
Made too many paintings--none great,
All a mere stylistic variant
Of worn-out themes.
But he knew how to stare down the powerful
And get them lapping at his feet.
His bruised period would look best
In a bargain furniture outlet.
Stole ideas from everywhere and capitalized,
And capitalized, and capitalized.
Repeatedly told us how big his balls were,
But the truth will likely never get out.
VI
He was probably a good lad.
Painted a few nice things but
Most are embarrassingly clumsy
(clumsiness later called innovation).
Unwittingly fathered the era of talkers
With their mediocre illustrative artwork.
But it's so comforting to see things that
we could do ourselves, so they are embraced.
Real genius is just too annoying.
That a life will be spent gaining inches,
When this distance is read in miles.
When this distance is read in miles.
-
Will
- Posts: 303
- Joined: Tue Mar 09, 2004 11:26 am
- Location: Formerly Delaware Water Gap, PA, now sweltering Miami
Well......
I. Clearly Vermeer and actually Proust went not to the Louvre, but to the Jeu de Paume to see "View of Delft" and "Girl with a Pearl Earring" according to George Painter's bio.
II. Toulouse Lautrec. No brainer.
III. Jackson Pollock and for extra credit, the woman is Peggy Guggenheim.
IV. Hopper. He was, of course, a successful illustrator before becoming a gallery artist, so to say, "They ignored him most of his life" isn't quite true.
By the coal bucket reference, it looks like you read Gail Levin's book.
V. Now your prejudices are showing. (although your distaste for Pollock was evident) You haven't really given us much info here, but from your description, I would have to guess you mean Picasso.
VI. This could be about anyone, but are you referring to Matisse? Not sure what you mean by the "era of talkers." Personally it took me a long time to "get" Matisse, but go to MOMA and spend some time with "The Piano Lesson".
Tramp, I would be dismayed to learn that someone with your talents embraced the reactionary and Philistine notion that the only real barometer of great art is traditional post-Renaissance representational realism. I can't believe this would be the case.
Enjoyed the poems, though.
I. Clearly Vermeer and actually Proust went not to the Louvre, but to the Jeu de Paume to see "View of Delft" and "Girl with a Pearl Earring" according to George Painter's bio.
II. Toulouse Lautrec. No brainer.
III. Jackson Pollock and for extra credit, the woman is Peggy Guggenheim.
IV. Hopper. He was, of course, a successful illustrator before becoming a gallery artist, so to say, "They ignored him most of his life" isn't quite true.
By the coal bucket reference, it looks like you read Gail Levin's book.
V. Now your prejudices are showing. (although your distaste for Pollock was evident) You haven't really given us much info here, but from your description, I would have to guess you mean Picasso.
VI. This could be about anyone, but are you referring to Matisse? Not sure what you mean by the "era of talkers." Personally it took me a long time to "get" Matisse, but go to MOMA and spend some time with "The Piano Lesson".
Tramp, I would be dismayed to learn that someone with your talents embraced the reactionary and Philistine notion that the only real barometer of great art is traditional post-Renaissance representational realism. I can't believe this would be the case.
Enjoyed the poems, though.
Will
Pennsy, still the Standard, or whatever.
Pennsy, still the Standard, or whatever.
Will, I can't stand most representational realism. I call it rendering. Rendering does not interest me, nor do I respect it much. Actually, I don't mind Pollack, and he was a favorite of mine as a teenager. And I like Matisse quite a bit, though I like Bonnard much more. No one gets number VI. It's Cezanne. Sorry, but I just don't see why he's such a big deal, though I really like a few of his things enormously.
Excellent on the Lad's guesses.
The only thing that matters to me in a painting is the emotional power and esthetic knowledge and how it affects my life. I could care less what school it was from. Besides, am I a realist?
Excellent on the Lad's guesses.
The only thing that matters to me in a painting is the emotional power and esthetic knowledge and how it affects my life. I could care less what school it was from. Besides, am I a realist?
That a life will be spent gaining inches,
When this distance is read in miles.
When this distance is read in miles.
-
Will
- Posts: 303
- Joined: Tue Mar 09, 2004 11:26 am
- Location: Formerly Delaware Water Gap, PA, now sweltering Miami
Well, I figured as much, but I wanted to flush you out.
Cezanne? No, I wouldn't have ever guessed that from the description. By "era of talkers", I guess you mean he is the considered the father of modern art
I do think Cezanne has been a little over-hyped, but some of his still lives are absolutely mouth-watering. You just want to eat them.
I think he is beloved because he was a true artist- always searching for the perfect composition and color harmonies. Willing to tirelessly rework the same idea until he got it right, whatever the personal cost. Some of his figures certainly are clumsy, I'll grant you that. But his still lives and landscapes!
Plus, he freed art from the depiction of depth- he found a precarious balance between the roundness of an apple, say, and the flatness of the canvas, or did so to a greater extent than anyone had up until his time, and thus paved the way for Cubism and ultimately abstraction. So he is judged not just on his work, but by his influence. I know you know all this, but it bears repeating.
You might be called a magic realist, if you needed a label, which I know you do not.
Cezanne? No, I wouldn't have ever guessed that from the description. By "era of talkers", I guess you mean he is the considered the father of modern art
I do think Cezanne has been a little over-hyped, but some of his still lives are absolutely mouth-watering. You just want to eat them.
I think he is beloved because he was a true artist- always searching for the perfect composition and color harmonies. Willing to tirelessly rework the same idea until he got it right, whatever the personal cost. Some of his figures certainly are clumsy, I'll grant you that. But his still lives and landscapes!
Plus, he freed art from the depiction of depth- he found a precarious balance between the roundness of an apple, say, and the flatness of the canvas, or did so to a greater extent than anyone had up until his time, and thus paved the way for Cubism and ultimately abstraction. So he is judged not just on his work, but by his influence. I know you know all this, but it bears repeating.
You might be called a magic realist, if you needed a label, which I know you do not.
Will
Pennsy, still the Standard, or whatever.
Pennsy, still the Standard, or whatever.
I've been called a lot of things, but never a Magic Realist. At least not that I remember. I spent a few afternoons with George Tooker. He was considered a Magic Realist. Maybe it rubbed off?
By "era of talkers," I mean that point when the dogma about the art became more important than the work itself. The work became an illustration for pages and pages of words. I like art that cuts through everything. As Hopper said, "If I could say it, I wouldn't have to paint it."
One of my obsessions is making paintings that are flat AND have an illusion of depth at the same instant. I just think Cezanne was unable the achieve what he wanted and got grabbed to rationalize Modern Art. I too like the struggle in his work. As I said, a few of his things really work, but I think he stumbled into them. That does not make them less amazing.
By "era of talkers," I mean that point when the dogma about the art became more important than the work itself. The work became an illustration for pages and pages of words. I like art that cuts through everything. As Hopper said, "If I could say it, I wouldn't have to paint it."
One of my obsessions is making paintings that are flat AND have an illusion of depth at the same instant. I just think Cezanne was unable the achieve what he wanted and got grabbed to rationalize Modern Art. I too like the struggle in his work. As I said, a few of his things really work, but I think he stumbled into them. That does not make them less amazing.
That a life will be spent gaining inches,
When this distance is read in miles.
When this distance is read in miles.
Will, I like this: [Magic Realism (also magical realism) noun a literary or artistic genre in which realistic narrative and naturalistic technique are combined with surreal elements of dream or fantasy.] Funny how actual definitions fit where our assumptions about a term don't.
Jon, did you know Rubens was the first artist that didn't make his own work? He had a factory turning those things out, and he'd pop in after a night of drinking and add the finishing touches. He became VERY wealthy.
Now, let's get back to tractors!
Jon, did you know Rubens was the first artist that didn't make his own work? He had a factory turning those things out, and he'd pop in after a night of drinking and add the finishing touches. He became VERY wealthy.
Now, let's get back to tractors!
That a life will be spent gaining inches,
When this distance is read in miles.
When this distance is read in miles.
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