Inspired by: An Eva Hesse watercolor

On the way down to Nashville we stopped at the St. Louis Art Museum to look at a small showing of prints and drawings done by sculptors. A few of them were quite nice, but a watercolor by Eva Hesse really stuck with me.

Cameraphone image of an untitled Eva Hess watercolor hung at the St. Louis Art Museum

I knew Hesse’s name prior to last week, but I didn’t know anything about her work. Interestingly, I don’t like a lot of it from what I can tell, with the exception of the untitled 1968 watercolor to the right and a 1969 installation titled Contingent, that looks a lot like an installation I did as a college student. The brief at the museum talks about how the two dimensional work was an exploration in light leading up to Contingent.

Both my wife and I were drawn to a beauty within the painting. The shapes reminded me of farm fields adjacent to one another, something I’ve been attempting to incorporate into my own works in the last year or two. But I also took note of her layering. Penciled lines unabashedly bordered and bled through the delicate watercolor wash. Such transparency and layering is something that’s eluded my fledgling attempts to convey the sense of space a person experiences when supercells roll over alfalfa on the Plains. Mmmm, I can smell that distant rain piercing the greeny-sweet alfalfa now.

Hesse’s painting seems to be just the kind of work I needed to see this summer. I’ve started to work on some small paintings, but there was an aspect of these works that was lacking. I was limiting myself to one media and method too strictly — despite referring to myself as a mixed media sculptor. I was only allowing myself to work within an overly basic idea of paint. I realized this before seeing the Hesse artwork, but her watercolor in essence gave definition to my realization.

Now let’s hope I can put some action to this inspiration in the near future!

Is there a best location for an artist retreat?

During the course of conversation with certain other interested types, one of the things that comes up again and again is that of the proposed location of this proposed mission mobilizing artist retreat.

Midwest or Great Plains

  • Contemplative (see Kathleen Norris’ Dakota: A spiritual geography)
  • Cheaper land and property, generally speaking
  • Central location (instead of obligatory coastal/metro location)

I touched on this in my last retreat related post, but it seems to be worth bringing up again.

I was clear in the last post that part of the reasoning for the Great Plains was possibly personal bias, although I’m still sticking to the reasoning above for the time being. My wife and I both find Norris’ observation very compelling. From her book Dakota:

    Like all those who choose life in the slow lane — sailors, monks, farmers — I partake of a contemplative reality. Living close to such an expanse of land I find I have little incentive to move fast, little need of instant information. I have learned to trust the processes that take time, to value change that is not sudden or ill-considered but grows out of the ground of experience.

I suppose there is a chance I’m reading a little too much into Norris’ meaning here (the book is still packed and I can’t reference it beyond the above quote). I’d love to have the chance to ask her to elaborate on the tie between big skies and a contemplative life at some point, but I haven’t had the chance to do that. And in the mean time I will rely on my wife‘s certified super-power: reading comprehension.

I think I’ve said before that there are admittedly other natural settings that also foster contemplation, and that these places can be different for different people — which is the impetus for this post. I’ve chatted with several other people, artists and catalysts, who think the Rocky Mountains are the best place for artistic inspiration. Others suggest the wooded Ozarks, and we probably all know someone with an affinity for the beach. Is one place better than another?

Can there be a consensus? Or are multiple retreats, as I posited in the last entry, the best option?

Does there need to be a consensus? Or are artists simply eager for time and space to create regardless of location?

As an artist,

is there a particular natural setting
that best fosters a contemplative spirit for you?

What is it and why?


On a sidenote, I’ve probably dug myself a hole of sorts by using the word “inspiration” at all. Inspiration is not the same as contemplation. The point of this particular artist retreat, while in large part is to give artists the opportunity to have extended periods of uninterrupted studio time, is not necessarily to provide inspiration.

Intellect and compassion

I asked for and received a few C.S. Lewis books that I’ve yet to read for Christmas (I also tried to win a copy of Chesterton’s Orthodoxy at Urbana09, but my dart throwing skills weren’t up to snuff.). What this means is that the recently neglected stack of books — relatively short in comparison to my that of avid reading wife — awaiting my attention swelled when I was barely able to complete one read in 2009. Hopefully I’ll be able to pay more attention to my books in 2010. If I am so able, these give me access to reading material since most of our collection is still packed away in boxes.

I had reason, though, in asking for these books beyond just having “access to reading material.” Lately I’ve come to desire a faith, a Christianity, that is both more intellectual and compassionate than the one I’ve known or been exposed to and involved with for most of my life. I’m not exactly certain where this desire is coming from or where it’s leading, but that’s fine for now.

Lewis challenges me intellectually in a unique way. I used to read his writings regularly, but recently I’ve focused on writings on the arts, a lot of which are also intellectually challenging and steeped in theology. However, I’ve palpably missed his writing. This week I started into The Abolition of Man. It’s a short read I hope to finish quickly; my second reforay into Lewis will be Surprised By Joy.

Autumn inspiration

One of the themes on The Aesthetic Elevator is what I refer to as “intentional observation.” In other words, take time to stop and smell the roses. In the early days of this blog I talked about how walking across campus in college afforded such an opportunity — a built-in time for paying attention to things most of us ignore.

I was reminded of this today as I began to rake leaves in the backyard. I remembered how influential spending time outside, particularly during Spring and Autumn, was to my artwork. And as I thought about it some more I realized how detrimental things like television and automobiles are to this process.

Computers don’t necessarily help either.

Artistic inspiration

I’ve mentioned a couple times in the past my fascination with thunderstorms. Growing up on the prairie, they are visible from 100 miles away. Here in the Ozarks, the trees and hills make watching such storms form and billow quite difficult.

Blooming

This weekend provided an exception. A small but drenching squall grew up immediately south of Siloam Springs, allowing me to watch as it expanded up into the blue sky, layers pillowing out like popcorn right over my head. The show was eventually closed up by some whispy gray clouds below the thunderhead, but it has been years since I’ve been able to watch this.

Architect Daniel Lee, and me

I milled around last night on architect Daniel Lee’s website:

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I highlighted some of Lee’s thoughts from an interview last week. The website is nice to surf around on — although it was a bit sluggish with my high speed wireless. I imagine a dial-up connection would result in a lot of frustration (It seems to me a lot of architecturally oriented websites are sluggish and animation-heavy, another example being Zaha Hadid’s website.).

I began drafting floor plans in, if I recall correctly, sixth grade. I might still have one or two of these youthful drafts, might. I cannot tell of the impetus behind this activity at this young age — it seems like a pretty abnormal activity for a 12 or 13 year old boy to me. But I often spent four to six hours straight putting these scaled drawings to paper. I still liked a regular game of football with my friends, but my passion quickly became traffic flow and proportion.

Not surprisingly I began my college career by studying architecture. However, after two years, I changed my major (as so many students are wont to do). At the time I thought my reasoning was sound: I came to believe that, if I pursued architecture as I desired to, this profession would impede my ability to volunteer at my church and spend time with my family. A couple years after this decision, I spent a night in the home of a Presbyterian while touring Missouri with 50 international students. He told me this conflict did not exist for him or his family — although I don’t know his specific role in the realm of architecture. (And the recent film The Lake House seems to lend credence to my collegiate reasoning.).

All of this to say my time on Lee’s website stirred in me a yearning to return to architecture. The love of spatial design, creation and ornamentation never left me. I did not expect it to leave me. Nor do I expect (I am, however, open to being pleasantly surprised) in this life to act on this love in full.

The first thing capturing my attention on Lee’s website is a page titled “Building to Last.” The many discussions I’ve had with friends lamenting the cheap, unenduring building methods of this present American culture! This section of the website is not as direct as I would hope, but perusing photographs of his work one easily sees a quality not present in the common McMansion.

His houses — it seems he only designs personal dwellings — are palatial. It’s difficult for me to imagine designing such a structure. First off, I likely won’t ever find an earthly opportunity to purchase such a residence (most architects can’t afford their client’s homes). Thanks to my uncle, I once toured a house on this scale. All of its 18,000 square feet included a bowling alley and basement pool with waterfall. Secondly, I’m personally drawn toward a more pragmatic and sustainable lifestyle. There’s nothing inherently wrong with large dwellings, but I personally find a thrill in the design of small spaces, which are also more practical.

The other portion of Lee’s website capturing my attention was called “Next Steps.” From what I can tell, this is a suggested reading list for potential clients. It includes such classics as Walking on Water: Reflections on faith and art by Madeleine L’Engle and, of all things, The Ten Books on Architecture by Vitruvius. The Vitruvius text is from 30 B.C. and is not light reading.

Its inclusion in this list made me laugh.

Barefoot College’s solar engineers

Rocketboom interviewed Bunker Roy of the Barefoot College in central India for today’s program. The program trains rural middle-aged women (who are at least partially literate) to be solar engineers — among other things. The following photograph, from Barefoot’s website:

badakshan_solar_lit.jpg

is of “The first fully solar electrified village in Afghanistan.” This particular project was done in partnership with Norwegian Church Aid.

Kudos to the Barefoot College, which has actually been around since 1972 according to their website. And kudos to Norwegian Church Aid for partnering with such a project.

Entitlement in America: In the media

One or two years ago, Kia ran a series of ads “reminding” Americans they were entitled to certain things — things like 100,000 mile warranties. The commericals, as I recall, actually told the viewer “this is your right” and “you’re entitled to.” I can’t find these ads online, although a bunch of other innocuous Kia ads can be seen on YouTube.

What is it that entitles us to certain vehicular features and warranties?

I’m reading a very interesting book right now called Branded: The buying and selling of teenagers. Author Alissa Quart, while talking about the surge in consumerism following 9/11, writes this:

    The Los Angeles Times, in one of its many consumer-as-upright-citizen stories, quoted a Marina del Ray resident who told a reporter that “we need to put more money into the economy now.” The telling detail? The woman was “balancing a shopping bag and garment bag, while trying to stuff cash into her wallet in front of an ATM.”
    The kids got the message. “It’s patriotic to shop,” Amy tells me. Two of the Teen People trendspotters echoed the sentiment. Buying and spending on luxury goods were reaffirmed as the keys to citizenship. It was a message that the adolescents I spoke with in the months after September 11 took to heart. [page 33]

Citizenship tied to consumerism? Patriotic to go shopping? Who are these people?

Or who am I? I fear that me and my friends, most of which would find the above ideas completely absurd, are in a thinking minority. Quart worries in her book that the teenagers of the late 1990s and early 2000s (who she interviewed for her book) are lured into a brand and consumer mentality without any other frame of reference — without thinking about potential repercussions.

And rightly so.

Artist profile: Eddie Dominguez

I found this interview with Eddie Dominguez while surfing for one of his works yesterday. Eddie, a ceramic artist, was my most influential college professor at the University of Nebraska.

It’s about 30 minutes and very candid. Eddie has a refreshingly pragmatic perspective on art and is very honest about his own work. The interview is worth watching. His tile below is called “Night Storm” (2001, porcelain 21″ X 21″ X 1/2″).

History and story in daily life

Recently I’ve become interested in the idea of story. I don’t know what prompted this, and I’m only pondering the idea in very broad strokes. I’m also becoming increasingly interested in how history plays a significant part in our lives.

We live in an older house. We also have a variety of furniture throughout our little bungalow, and occasionally I stop to think about where they came from and where they’ve been. This is a partial list of some things around the house.

Piano: Our piano is a 100 year old Tryber upright. My father bought it at an auction about three years ago. No one in the house played the piano; he bought it because he thought it was a beautiful piece of furniture. It is beautiful, much more ornate than most others, and the original ivory keys are in wonderful condition.

My father didn’t know when he bought it that it was previously owned by his sister’s good friend’s mother.

Headboard: My great-grandfather built two homes on a corner in Grand Island, Nebraska during the Depression. He and his wife — my great-grandmother who just died at 103 — lived on the main floor of one of the homes and rented the rest of the rooms out to make ends meet.

My great-grandmother lived in the house until the late 1980′s, and she kept the next door rental house into the early 1990′s. When the family sold the home, they took a wonderful old walnut headboard out of the basement. Somehow I ended up with it, and it’s now in our guest room.

Marble: I mentioned this in the recent Salvage and restore entry. The marble sitting on top of our coffee table in the living room also came from my great-grandfather’s rental house. My great-grandfather salvaged the marble (about 5 pieces) from a grand old hotel downtown. From what we understand, it was a urinal divider.

Bookshelves: Earlier this year I installed some bookshelves in our living room. I constructed the bookshelves almost entirely of salvaged pine boards from three old homes in town which I helped remodel.

Mirror base: A fundraising garage sale yielded an ornate “mantle” last year. The ladies running the garage sale told me it formerly served as the base for a large mirror sitting on the floor. I bought it for $10, tacked some plywood on the top and screwed it to the wall in our little sitting room. While I know very little of where it’s been and come from, the ornate carvings wonderfully betray the hand-made nature of the work and the style of the rusty old screws suggest it’s had a long life.

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