The Great Picture Book of Everything

The Great Picture Book of Everything is the grandiose title that was attached to an unpublished encyclopedia illustrated by the Japanese master Katsushika Hokusai (1760-1849). Hokusai is doubtless the most famous Japanese artist. Although it was known that the master had made the more than one hundred drawings, they have never been exhibited in public, until now. The small drawings (each maybe the size of a postcard) are being shown by the British Museum. Happily, there is a companion book published last week. 

"The Great Wave Off Kanagawa," 1830, woodblock print

Without question, Hokusai's print known popularly as "The Great Wave," one of the "Thirty-Six Views of Mt. Fuji," begun in 1830 and completed a few years afterward. But the master worked daylight to dark most days of his ninety years and left behind thousands of prints, drawings, paintings and other works. These newly exhibited works are probably part of a much larger group, given that the Boston Museum of Fine Arts holds nearly 180 similar-sized works with similar style.  

"Cats and Hibiscus," ink on paper, 1820-40

Perhaps one of the most important facets of these images is they aren't prints, unlike so many famous works by Hokusai, but are actual drawings by his hand. Drawings are lost in traditional wood block printing so that very few exist. Here we can examine the genius of the master's hand rather than as interpreted by a block cutter. These were for an unpublished book and were therefore preserved.

"Water Fowl," ink on paper

The book that accompanies the exhibition is well worth the time and money involved.

Remembering Wayne Thiebaud

Wayne Thiebaud has died at 101. One of my favorite artists, Mr. Thiebaud was a titan in the world of painting. Although the casual observer remembers his mostly early paintings of food--pies and cakes, ice cream cones, pastries, and hot dogs—in his later years he painted dizzying cityscapes of San Francisco as well as northern California. He was also noted for his figure paintings. 

"Pies, Pies, Pies," oil on panel, 1961

 

Mr. Thiebaud had a very long career more than eight decades. His first work as an artist was as an apprentice at Walt Disney Studios when he was still in high school. During World War II he was an artist for the Army Air Force First Motion Picture Unit. Afterward he attended college in California, earning bachelor and master degrees in art. From that time onward he observed, taught and painted. And with a few short exceptions he spent the majority of his career in northern California.

"Up Street." oil, 1993

Although his subject matter was mundane in many ways, his interest wasn't specifically in the items but in their shapes and colors, and the fall of light. He was a master at manipulation of paint. His still life works of food are manifestly just oil paint but his handling makes them mouth watering, even so. He loved gum ball machines not because they were machines but because of the repetitive colored circles of gumballs within the globes of the dispensers. Because of subject matter like that, more than handling, he was often lumped into the circles of Pop Art but his aesthetic sense was never ironic in the way, say Andy Warhol's was, and he often rejected the label. A realist down to his toes he still strove for the abstract, later realizing that goal in his aerial landscapes of San Francisco streets and the countryside near Sacramento.

In part, Mr. Thiebaud has been an inspiration to me simply because he worked daily at his art until his death. He was quoted by his gallery as saying he had a "...neurotic fixation of trying to learn to paint." Because painting is more than the output of the artist; it's a learning process start to finish, if you let it be. 

Goodbye and thank you for a wonderful career and for your inspiring role model. 

"Farm Channel," 1996

"Winding River," oil, 2002

"Jackpot Machine," oil, 1962

"Two Seated Figures," oil, 1964

Happy Christmas

"Earthrise," photo by NASA 1968

Disegna

The quote, "Disegna Antonio, disegna e non perder tempo" is worth revisiting. A couple of years ago I posted about drawing using that title for the blog. The translation, from a note by Michelangelo Buonarotti to one of his students is "Draw Antonio. draw and don't waste time." This advice from a half-milennium in the past is still fundamental to good art. 

"Felon," graphite/chalk on paper

Drawing isn't simply making an image of something. Sure, realists like me concentrate on representation. We may exaggerate or change the image but we want our paintings and drawings to look like the object or person, even then. Drawing is a critical skill in representing reality. You might say it's not so critical for abstractionists but that's arguable. For one thing, you must understand the reality of something before you can break it into component parts (abstract it). Drawing is even useful for non-objective painters. Jackson Pollock memorably worked very very hard to exclude any marks that looked like something in the real world, for example. You must know what you're excluding as well as including in the work you're making. 

So for me, drawing is an every day activity, and has been for decades. Besides whatever painting or other artwork or activity, I set aside an hour or so for drawing, usually in the mornings. But over the years I've drawn in my studio, in coffee shops, airport waiting areas, meetings, concerts, and even in movies. Drawing is the chain running through my work and holding everything together. 

After daVinci, digital

For a long while the majority of my drawings have been digital, primarily because of convenience, but of course digital drawing is tougher when you're out and about. These days digital tablets are beginning to catch up, though the vast majority of my digital work is done on a Wacom display tablet. These astonishing devices are actually pressure-sensitive video monitors that you draw on directly. That is, the display is like an electronic drawing board. Anyway, the convenience--just turn it on--is hard to beat, and so is the clean up. 

"Rooster," ink on paper

What We Miss

A lot of the things we're accustomed to have nearly disappeared during the pandemic. Some are obvious--concerts, restaurant dining, handshakes, and so on. But there are other items, perhaps less commonly encountered, that we miss only when we think about it. And of course Joni Mitchell's old lyric, "...you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone" certainly applies. Lately I've been thinking about things I miss during these months of emergency. 

One of my favorite places here is the Better Homes and Gardens Test Garden, on the western edge of downtown. It's a lovely spot, shady and cool, with the soft music of flowing water. It's only open to the public on Fridays for a brief time--and may have been closed completely during the pandemic. Regardless, I happened upon the watercolor sketches below, from a visit a few years ago and they reminded me of how much I love to visit. A small thing I miss while the world suffers.

"Looking North, the Gardens," wc on paper

"Better Homes and Gardens Demo Garden," wc on paper

 An Iowa event that many of us have missed is the State Fair. Although it was cancelled in 2020, for some reason it was held this year, though I did not go. The Fair is an institution here and in some ways one of the most egalitarian gatherings. It brings all classes, all locales, essentially every stratum of society, together. It's a celebration of the bedrock of the state and region and it's likely one of the largest (certainly the most famous) in the country. Perhaps by next year the corona virus will have burned through and disappeared. I will go then.

"On the Grand Concourse, Iowa State Fair," wc on paper

"The Tram, Iowa State Fair," wc on paper

The return to normal is slow, impeded by many uncertainties and by our own human frailty. We can only follow the science and live through it.

Winter Color

When winter rolls around a lot of folks complain about the drab look of the world. After the brightness of autumn it's no wonder that winter colors are harder to appreciate. But if you look there is always color everywhere in the world. It takes looking and seeing, though. 

Here's a small watercolor from a few years back that shows what I mean about winter color. The painting was done in February--by definition the dead of winter--but there's a great deal of color in the woods and ground. Dry, dormant grasses lay flat on the banks of the creek; the soils here and there range in color from rusty to dark like humus; branches in the distance are no longer distinct but their color hangs in the air. No, the world isn't drab and monotonous in winter. Just look around. 

"Before the Snow," watercolor on paper, 5x9

Along My Creek

"Downstream, Druid Hill Creek," oil on panel, 12x9, 2020, available

This has come up other times, but over the past few years of plein air paintings--watercolors and oils--one recurrent subject for me has been "my" creek. It flow through, south to north, probably not all that much different than it was decades ago. It's spring-fed and always runs, a few inches to several feet deep. Although I actually live less than ten minutes from downtown Des Moines we have abundant wildlife along the water--deer, grounhogs, foxes, even bobcats. It is a scrap of wilderness in the middle of an urban area. 

"Downstream," wc on paper, 8x10, 2020

"Winter on the Creek," casein on paper 8x10, 2019

Like many I chose this subject because of easy availability (just outside my studio window). Druid Hill Creek has become an important subject for me by simply being there, rather like Monet's garden in Giverney. The creek has many moods, many different faces, depending on the season. And because water and foliage present interesting challenges for study, I've worked on pictures of it from several viewpoints and in all seasons. 

As the seasons go by images of the creek in all kinds of weather will continue to accumulate, no doubt.

Mountain Vista

Although aspens grow here in Iowa it's out west in the mountain states where you see vast stretches of bright gold, in autumn. In fact a miles-long stand of aspens in Utah is known to be a single organism--each tree stem is a clone of the original. This painting isn't based on that stand of trees but on another at Estes Park, in Colorado. Although we've visited various locales in the Rockies over the years, Estes Park is not one of them. In this case I used a friend's snapshot for reference material, with her kind permission. 

"Estes Park," oil on panel, 11x14, available.

The Rockies provide dramatic vistas that tax the painter's skills in representing three dimensions--especially great distance--on a flat surface. The wide variation in yellows was another challenge.
 

Autumn Blaze

Now that December has arrived, few trees have held their leaves and those that have are clinging to dried, dark and less interesting bunches, altogether less interesting than a few short weeks ago. While sorting files I ran across this plein air painting of the Raccoon River, done in late October. The trees along the banks were glorious and yellow--almost as bright as those van Gogh yellows of his final few years. Although reality is bare trees and subtle hues I'm not ready to let go of the glory of the fall.

"Autumn Color on the River," oil on panel, 9x12

"Autumn Color on the River" is a plein air painting, executed on the spot the last two days or so of October on warm autumn mornings. The time meant changing light, so it's a very impressionistic take on the bright fall colors.