The first is that the “process of drawing is a really live process and not like a dead thing, ‘Oh my God I can’t change anything because I made that line five minutes ago.’” If we didn’t learn this from all of the gestural drawings we did in college, I don’t think we ever will. This is, I believe, what paralyzes a lot of people who do not have artistic training (or even artistic ambitions) when they think of drawing. They have this idea that your first line has to be perfect. Not so.

McMullan’s second interesting point is that people tend to want to compete with a photograph when they are drawing. From there he says “I’m trying to show people is that a much more vigorous way of seeing the body or seeing the head is to look at the big forms first . . . we tend to concentrate on the eyes and hairstyle and think that that is what gives people their visual personality.” He continues by pointing out that visual personality comes actually from basic visual forms — the slant of the brow, how much the nose protrudes from the cheek — and not so much the things we usually concentrate on.

I wish McMullan would have expounded on how we tend to compete with photographs as we draw (or sculpt in clay as well?). He may have been trying to do so with this important notation on how we perceive the human countenance, but there is something more to be said about how that perception is shaped in an environment canvased with such realistic human likenesses. Before photography — yes, there was such a time — how did we look at a portrait as a viewer? How did we approach an object, a figure, as an artist?

Regardless, these two points came at just the right time for me. Drawing (with graphite or clay) is a living thing shifting throughout the creative process — a responsive process drawn from observation of both the actual and perceived. Figurative countenance is defined by basic forms. Now off I go to sketch a few more faces from Flickr before putting those forms to clay.

Unfortunately the video seems to be hosted on the New York Times website and can’t be embedded. Watch it in its entirety via this link.

It’s not what you’d call realism.

However, Roberta Green Ahmanson, in an article titled Art Through Thick and Thin, argues for realism in relationship to contemplation.

But the realism is not in service of the self; it is in the service of bringing the viewer closer to the divine . . .

But such gore is not the only theme here. Contemplation demands realism as well, whether it’s Pedro de Mena’s “Virgin of Sorrows,” tearful over her son’s death, or his ecstatic Francis of Assisi . . .

But the artists on display in “The Sacred Made Real” bring the sacred into our world. The grief-stricken Magdalen contemplating the Cross, the Christ of the “Ecce Homo,” and the “Virgin of Sorrows” were not alone — for the display was crowded, and the visitors were in no hurry.

Am I simply more interested in the decorated and abstract mug than most people would be because clay is my craft? Were the visitors to the “Pop Life” exhibit, which Ahmason contrasts to “The Sacred Made Real” in her article, less likely to linger on the artworks simply because each show attracted a different demographic to begin with? Or is there something to the idea that realism is more likely to draw a viewer in and keep their attention than abstractions or non-representational pieces?

What do you consider to be more important, the subject matter of an art work or the message it conveys?

My response to that question, which touches on something that’s been in the back of my mind for the past few weeks anyway, is below:

An artwork’s message is contingent to a large degree (but not entirely) on its subject, isn’t it? Then again, messages aren’t always received by viewers as artists intend, even in the case of realism.

For years now ,clouds (mainly thunderstorms, but some more of the fluffly kind recently) have been a significant part of my inspiration and subject matter. When I’m crafting storms or clouds from clay or wood I have my own reasons and hopes for how a viewer will receive that message, but I’m fully aware that’s often not the case. People see whatever they want to in clouds — bunnies, ducks, firearms. In fact, we [Americans] expect to see things in clouds that aren’t there.

And here I am creating fairly realistic sculptures of thunderstorms and fluffy cumulus clouds hoping the viewers see, at the outset, storms and clouds. This paradox intrigues me, and is, perhaps, itself becoming part of the subject matter in my sculptures the more I continue in this atmospheric vein.

Adding: Thought this related to the question above:

Art is not merely or even partly a “communication” of “messages.” It is not a visual illustration of a philosophy, idea, or sign. It is not a preformed idea that is wrapped up in artistic material that the viewer then unwraps to “get.” As I never tire of telling my students, art is a complex and tense hypostatic union of form and content; it is about its “howness” (form) as much as its “whatness” (content). There is nothing to unwrap. This is why art should not be “read,” “decoded,” or otherwise considered to be the sum of its constituent parts. It is to be experienced—contemplated and communed with, dwelt upon. This of course is dangerous, because an aesthetic experience can do unexpected things to you. And given our own differences in experience that the work of art engages, our responses to the work will be different.

From The Other Journal

[YouTube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kyeOOwcDcxs]

Some interesting tidbits from the interview, 97% of Etsy’s user base is female, thus the largest segment of sales comes from jewelery. Etsy did almost $100 million in sales in 2009. An average sale on the site includes two items and totals $15.

See these new shops for some nice works:

Megan Chaney Studios for ceramic sculpture.

Old World Swine for still lifes and landscapes.

Andrew Wyeth died today at the age of 91. Wyeth was an American realist known for Christina’s World (1948, above) and a series of studies of his neighbor Helga (below, 1971-1985). Critics have long complained that his work is little more than illustration, although shows of the artist’s paintings often draw record crowds.

Not knowing much more than I’ve already stated about the artist, I still disagree with this recurring criticism. There is, in my opinion, a depth of content by means of his composition and subject matter that I don’t generally associate with mere illustration. While not quite as surreal and evocative as, say, contemporary realist works by the likes of Patty Wickman, Wyeth’s paintings draw out a contemplative emotion far beyond a Rockwellian nostalgia — who’s works aren’t really contemplative at all. Wyeth’s painting was, probably, poorly received simply because he happened to be a realist in a Modernist world.

After lunch I decided to look him up online again, as I couldn’t remember anything he’d done. After a couple minutes browsing his website I ended up on a gallery page full of still lifes. Almost every painting features what appear to be hand-made pots.

[Per the artist's request, certain links previously included at the end of this post have been removed for the time being.]

I sketch before I get into the actual sculpture to give myself a better understanding of the subject. Sketching serves as a second level of observation, as well as time to brainstorm new ways to use clay or wood in my sculptures.

It seems, in some respects, that everyone wants to be a photographer these days. By everyone, I mean an awful lot of people who might not necessarily possess a natural giftedness in the visual arts. There seem to be pros and cons to this movement, if I can call it that, but those are for another post. Regardless, the implications on the tactile arts of a camera and process that so realistically reproduce a given subject remain significant.

Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy photography. However, I often think we don’t understand its limitations in accurately portraying the objects, situations and atmosphere within its frame. As amazing as the medium is, it’s easy to overestimate a photo’s ability to convey a space and time.

Does the often insane pace of life around us and our resulting impatience — and therein lack of intentional observation — keep us from really seeing a photograph? Are we so used to photography as part of our environment that we only glance at the products of this amazing visual technology, not giving it proper attention?

Has photography made artists lazy? If not, does it have the potential to strip artists of the desire to create tactile works? I asked myself this as I sketched last night. The question was born of, in part, this next question: Why would I bother sculpting storms in clay on such a small scale, not being able to render a lot of their detail, when we can just look at photographs? Sculptures take up shelf or table space people don’t have. Photographs can easily be hung on walls, which are usually more plentiful. Since I’m so infatuated with storms like the one above, why don’t I just become a storm chaser (which I would love to do) and photograph the things?

First off, I’m driven to work with my hands, hence the focus on this blog on the tactile arts. Secondly, even if my sketches and sculptures don’t/won’t rival the immaculate vision and presence of a prairie storm, they represent a personal level of investigation that goes beyond casual, or even some more serious observation. Thirdly, I’d like to believe there is some validity in my own interpretation. The third point is a bit dangerous; this kind of thinking can place too much emphasis on an artist’s personal interests. You can’t — and shouldn’t want to — completely separate the artist from the sculpture; however, art is bigger than any individual.

“Make it your goal to live quietly, to mind your own business, and to work with your own hands . . . so that you may win the respect of outsiders, and have need of nothing.”

Kudos to nicholas_t for using a Creative Commons License.

Her handwriting is gorgeous as well.

I like the composition of these three works, as well as a certain softness that seems to be her style. It gives the subjects certain kind of handmade beauty without compromising the rendering, the realism.

So I’m off to the convent, folks! After receiving my Bachelor of Arts in Art History from the University of Dallas, my Masters of Fine Art in oil painting from the New York Academy of Art, I set out for Florence to do post-graduate work at the Florence Academy of Art. It was in Florence that I became familiar with the Religious of the Sacred Heart.

This semi-cloistered order, rooted in St. Madeleine Sophie Barat’s Society of the Sacred Heart, houses a community of 15 nuns, the only community in the only house of this new reform order. As every Roman Catholic religious, these nuns take the vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience. Their special fourth vow is one of education of the youth.


Annie Heyne at work on a painting.

Many of the rooms of the convent building are used as classrooms. The school is co-ed with kids from 3 to 18 years old. Some of the nuns teach others busy themselves with the boarding students, while others deal with the business aspect of things. Whether it’s with the house, the school, the infirmary, or of course with prayer, you can imagine these nuns keep busy!

The convent stands as a large, white pillar amidst two-hundred olive trees, fruit trees, small vineyards and honey-beehives. While simple on the inside, it is bedecked with every sort of flower and greenery throughout the year on the outside! And of course, there is the view! As the building is just far enough outside the city-center, it lends itself to a breath-taking view of Brunelleschi’s Duomo and really all of Florence. And how amazing it is!

Continue reading via this link. Haven’t made time to really read the bio yet, but my question is “Will she still be able to paint as a semi-cloistered nun?”

[YouTube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nUDIoN-_Hxs]