The Irish Hunger Memorial, a public art project designed by sculptor Brian Tolle in Battery Park City, re-opened to the public late last summer after undergoing major renovations to address damage caused by water infiltration in the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy. Originally built in the early 2000s, the monument opened for the first time on July 16, 2002. Roberta Smith from The New York Times described the monument as a “typically postmodern blend of existing art styles — Realism, Conceptual Art and Earth Art — bound together by historical fact and physical accuracy.”
A methodical thinker, Tolle had spent plenty of time in Ireland doing research for this project which occupies half of acre overlooking the Statue of Liberty, and Ellis Island. The centerpiece is an 1820s stone cottage brought from Ireland. Also, stones from Ireland’s 32 counties and Irish flora were incorporating into the project, a reminder of the Great Irish Famine of 1845-52.
Tolle had installed two miles of historical references on the base of the Memorial, in the form of a lightning shadow. The text, lit from behind with the shadow cast on glass, is changed and updated periodically, so visitors approaching the Memorial on one day might happen to read a Quaker soup recipe that was used to help starving people in Ireland in 1847, and on another day statistics about the amount of dog food consumed in the United States. The artist believes that this textural engagement with the Memorial ultimately shapes visitors’ visceral experience as they move through the monument itself.
Tolle, who teaches a course on public art at Parsons, is alert to the fact that art shown in a museum or a gallery space is dedicated to a captive audience, an audience of interested gallery or museum goers. When it comes to public art, the artist explains: “There is no way of controlling, nor would you want to control the audience in a public space, so you never know who is going to come across a project, and how they might respond to it.” With that in mind, the artist envisioned a memorial that trusts the intelligence of the audience in interpreting the event of the famine and its historic significance.
By its very nature, public art is free and accessible to anyone. When it blends well with its surroundings, it gives meaning and shapes the identity of the space. Public art is also a reminder of the shared community values and aspirational goals.
Tolle will lead a special tour of the Irish Hunger Memorial this Saturday, October 28 from 2 to 3 pm, and discuss the history of the Memorial, as well as its recent renovation. A staff horticulturalist will be on hand to discuss the Memorial’s native Irish plantings as well.
Brian Tolle has exhibited his work in galleries, museums, and public spaces around the world. His projects include Skid Rows for the Queens Museum (2005), Witch Catcher at City Hall, New York City (2003), The Irish Hunger Memorial in Battery Park City, New York (2002), Waylay for the Whitney Biennial and the Public Art Fund in Central Park (2002), Man’s Achievement on a Shrinking Globe in an Expanding Universe for Crossing the Line, Queens Museum of Art, New York (2001), and Eureka for Over the Edges in Ghent, Belgium (2000), as well as more recent projects such as Outflow in Calgary, Canada (2015), and Origin at the University of Houston in Texas (2015). Brian’s work emphasizes a formal and iconographic dialog with history and context to produce striking and subtle works that engage the public. Using a variety of media, his works draw themes from the scale and experience of their surroundings, provoking a re-reading by cross-wiring reality and fiction. Brian received his MFA from Yale University, BFA from Parsons School of Design, and his BA from SUNY at Albany. He is currently on the graduate faculty at Parsons School of Design, and is the recipient of the Art Commission of the City of New York Award for Excellence in Design in 2008; the Irish American Historical Society, Irish American Heritage Committee – Irishman of the Year in 2003, and the Louis Comfort Tiffany Foundation Award, also in 2003. He is represented by CRG Gallery in New York City. Brian has a studio in the Catskills, in the historic town of Roxbury, Delaware County.
Simona David: Brian, before we talk specifically about your medium, please tell me how you became an artist.
Brian Tolle: I was born in New York City, and my family moved out to Long Island when I was about five years old. I actually came from a political family. My grandmother was a very active Democrat, and was involved with a number of organizations. She had many grandchildren, none of whom were interested at all in politics. I was in a position in my life when I wasn’t really sure what I wanted to do at 18, and going to college. So I went to SUNY Albany, and eventually ended up working full-time as a legislative intern in my junior year. I worked for an Assemblyman from Queens. And it was very challenging, and a very interesting job, but very, very stressful as well, so I would go home in the evenings, and I would draw to decompress from a day that I had just spent working in the Legislature. By the time I finished at SUNY, I was fairly disenchanted with politics, and didn’t want to go further. I moved to New York City, and continued to draw as a passion, and paint and eventually people started to pay attention to what I was doing. I decided to go back to school at Parsons, and pursue a fine arts degree. Immediately after that I was lucky enough to be accepted into all the graduate programs that I applied to, and decided to go to Yale University, where I did my MFA. And I was fortunate once again to be recognized by one of my professors who made some connections for me in New York, and placed me in what was back then a new gallery Basilico Fine Arts. Soon after I graduated I exhibited in New York, I guess in 1995. After that I had a two men show at Artists Space, a non-profit space that continues to exist today. So, it was late coming to it, but once I got there, I hit the ground running.
SD: It’s interesting that you have a degree in Political Science, but decided to shift careers, and become an artist. Did you draw or paint as a child?
BT: I did, I even remember these little sculptures that I was making; and it wasn’t that my family wasn’t supportive – my dad always took us to museums and historic places, but if you don’t come from an artistic family, it’s not apparent necessarily how one might pursue an artistic life. I might have had a certain talent, but it wasn’t something that anyone encouraged me to pursue as a career.
SD: Then you went on to Parsons and Yale and received formal training as an artist, and soon after you graduated, you began showing in New York City, which has always been a big deal. Who were your mentors or influencers during your formative period?
BT: I think the most influential professor for me was Ronald Jones. He is both a critic and an artist, but he’s also had a very politically charged agenda. So it was very easy for me to talk with him about some of the ideas about politics that I might have had in my head, because his work was so politically driven. It made the transition from a political to an arts education very-very smooth, and he supported that approach. The Yale program in sculpture is very small – only eight students graduate in any given class. And the way the program is set up is that it invites many artists, and critics, and curators, and in some cases art dealers, to teach seminars and meet with us in the studio. So we had a very rich and very fluid education.
SD: Have you always been interested in history? Somehow history seems to be playing a role in what you do as an artist.
BT: Yes. Very much so. I grew up in a place called Glen Cove in Long Island, a town established in 1668. So there were a lot of historic buildings in that town; I was the youngest member of the local Historical Society. I’ve always been interested in how history is represented, how it’s repositioned. I’m interested more in the mechanics of it than its specifics. How do we see things at different times? How do our opinions change over time?
SD: I read somewhere that when you were building the Irish Hunger Memorial you were looking to represent a variety of viewpoints, but none of them taking a central or a predominant role compared to the others.
SD: Maybe now it’s the time to talk about the materials that you use in your work. I know that you approach each project differently, and you say you don’t have a style. You used stones for the Irish Hunger Memorial, Styrofoam for the Witch Catcher, and acrylic for the project at the Manhattan Bridge. Sometimes you use plaster. Let’s talk about the thought process that you go through when you’re about to begin a new project, your technique, and also the tools and materials that you have in your studio.
BT: Every project, whether be for a public venue or for a museum or a gallery starts the same way, with intensive research. In the case of the Irish Hunger Memorial obviously the subject was provided. For that particular project I went to Ireland, and spent weeks there meeting with historians, visiting historical sites, trying to get a sense of what had happened there in the 1840s – 1850s. I entered into this research without any expectations about what might come out at the other end. So it’s not like I’m trying to use research to prove my thesis. It has more to do with a process of fortification, or enrichment that puts me in a position where ideas begin to gel, and I’m in a position to do something about it.
SD: Is it just about discovering and sharing, or also about renewing interest in certain topics?
BT: At this point in my career often times we’re invited without a proposal. The invitation is based on qualifications. It’s interesting, because we – I say we because I work with my partner Brian Clyne, who runs the studio – and I speak in the we because the scope and the scale of the projects that I do, even the projects that I do for galleries and museums, require the talents of many people, particularly the public projects, which in the case of the Irish Hunger Memorial, is a half of acre sculpture. So the invitation is based on qualifications. And what that does is that it frees us to really explore the possibilities and the meanings of a particular place. You never know where you’re going to land. In the last year we’ve made projects in Calgary, Alberta, Canada, at the University of Houston in Texas, and we’re about to install a permanent work at the entrance of the Manhattan Bridge into Brooklyn. So, these are three entirely different venues, with very-very distinct histories.
SD: You once said that the “materials must serve the work.” Talk about your conceptual approach.
BT: If there is a signature or fingerprint in the work is a conceptual one. It has much more to do with how I approach a subject and less to do with how I represent the subject. In the case of the Irish Hunger Memorial, we’re talking about a sculpture that occupies a half of acre of land, and is at the scale and scope that requires architects, structural engineers, landscape architects, lighting designers, graphic designers – it’s a sculpture on scale with the building. That had a very specific requirement. The work that I did for Levittown required that I built a perfect model of the original Levittown house, but then we chose to execute them in platinum silicon rubber, because I wanted them to have a kind of flexibility, and mutability that the originals obviously didn’t have. We really do have to stay flexible and open to the possibilities of the materials that best serve the concept.
THE WHITNEY BIENNIAL
SD: In 2002 you exhibited at the Whitney Biennial. Talk about that.
BT: I was installing that work for the Whitney Biennial while I was building the Irish Hunger Memorial. I spent my time both uptown and downtown. The Whitney collaborated with the Public Art Fund to install five projects within Central Park – it was in conjunction with the museum’s exhibition, but it was outside in the park. This was a groundbreaking exhibition to the extent that the Central Park Conservancy had always upheld Frederick Law Olmsted, the designer of the park’s belief that the park was in and of itself a work of art, and didn’t want art occupying the space of the park. I took on Olmsted’s idea and decided I didn’t want to install a discrete object in the park, but rather to work with nature. I was thinking about that kind of subtle disruption that could happen. I chose to install 75 pumps below the surface of the great lake near the Boathouse and the Bow Bridge that were controlled by a computer, to simulate flashes. Those flashes were programmed by me at different times during the exhibition, and they were in some cases very-very subtle like one splash, two splashes, three splashes in a row, and they’d give the impression maybe of a fish jumping, or a frog lipping, or a stone skipping. And then occasionally they’d do something maybe less benign – all of the fountains would go out simultaneously – in a kind of explosion of water. It was like testing the expression of water.
SD: It’s been said about your work that it has to do more with simulation than representation. I think these splashes can still be seen online whether looking through Google Images or perhaps on your website at briantollestudio.com. Watching those images makes one wonder, was it a fish or was it Brian Tolle playing with water?
THE IRISH HUNGER MEMORIAL
BT: Right. That was the whole point. Going back to the Irish Hunger Memorial, it became very clear to me when I became a finalist for the project, that what I was asked to do might actually be considered historical, and that made me very-very anxious. One of the requirements of the Memorial Committee was to create places for historical inscriptions. It’s one thing for an artist to do work that looks historical or create some sort of historical residence within the space of a museum or gallery, because people understand that is art. It’s a very different thing to be asked to organize the history of these traumatic events, the events of the famine. I did not want to officiate over that, and I certainly did not want to have the last word. There are two miles of information on the base of the Irish Hunger Memorial. All of it is in the form of lighting shadow. The text is lit from behind, and the shadow is cast on glass. So what that did was that it allowed for me to provide the space for not only a lot of information, but also information that can be easily changed and updated over time relatively inexpensively – the texts are not arranged in a chronological or categorical way. I wanted the experience to be more of a cacophony. So if you approached the Memorial on one day and happened to read a Quaker soup recipe that was used to help starving people in Ireland in 1847, or statistics about the amount of dog food consumed in the United States, that textural engagement might shape your visceral experience as you move through the monument itself.
SD: I understand that. To me just presenting something in a strictly chronological order has the tendency to a certain extent to become boring. By contrast, when you’re taken by surprise, I think you’re more excited about the experience. Just this year in 2015 you completed two major projects: Outflow in Calgary, Canada, and Origin at the University of Houston in Texas. Let’s talk about these two projects.
BT: I’ve been working up in Calgary for about eight years now developing this project. The City of Calgary’s interest as it related to me was in relationship to their water, drinking water in particular. Calgary is one of the major metropolitan areas that drinks directly from their river. The source of that water is the Bow Glacier in the Canadian Rockies. I spent a lot of time visiting the Rockies, and talking with the people who run the water system. They explained to me various processes that they used to maintain the cleanliness of the water, and how they tried to educate the public. One of the ways that they were thinking about raising public awareness with regard to the water source was to daylight existing outflows. An outflow is basically a storm sewer. In this case they were built in the 1950s, and they’re invisible. Daylighting made it very visible to the public where the water goes. But also by opening up the pipe, certain valval chemicals can gas off before they get to the river. And because of the nature of my sculpture, which is an inverted mountain range, very close to the source of the water, as the water runs through, solid polluters actually collect in the sculpture. In some ways it’s counterintuitive to think of a sculpture of being designed to collect trash before it goes into the river. Part of the mission of the project is to let people understand what’s going on; my mandate is to let the trash accumulate to the point when it needs to be removed.
SD: In this case your sculpture plays a role both aesthetic and functional. How big is the structure?
BT: It’s about 70 feet in one direction, and 35 feet in the other. It’s about 15 feet deep. We used digital topographs from the National Geographic Survey, so we had an actual 3D model of the mountain range. We carved the molds in foam, then poured in a very specialized concrete called ductal, which is manufactured in Calgary. We try to as best as we can to work locally. Of the total amount the city spent on this project, I would say about 80 percent went back to the city itself. We hired local manufacturers. The city hired a local architect Marc Boutin and his Collaborative to design a parkscape that supports the project. It’s been completely integrated into their park system.
SD: How did you achieve this incredible texture?
BT: That was the hardest thing, frankly. Here’s we were working with this concrete that is used to make overpasses, and train stations, and this is the first time it’s ever been used for a sculptural project of this scale. It behaves very differently from other concretes: when it’s first mixed it has the consistency of whipped cream. How to make the mold was a big issue. What we ended up doing was getting these enormous blocks of foam, 8 foot by 4 foot by 4 foot. What the fabricator did was to draw the plan of the top of the panel, and the plan of the bottom of the panel on either side of this gigantic block. And then I made a hot wire, and made all kinds of bents in this piece of wire, and then two people pulled this wire through the giant block of foam directed by a third person who would call a number, and they created this texture. The beauty of the texture is the fact that it’s an actual record of the physical effort that went into producing the molds themselves. If it is to describe its color, I’d say it looks like unglazed porcelain.
SD: Another project that you completed this year is called Origin; it’s at the University of Houston in Texas. Let’s talk about this project. And why this name? Did you pick the name?
BT: Yes. The title for me is the most difficult thing. I can’t explain why that is, but often times that’s the last thing. It frustrates a lot of clients. In the case of Houston, I got very involved in the history of the place. One of the things that existed when I went to the site was a lecture hall for the business school which had a very-very large scupper on the roof of the building; the arts administrator asked me not to pay too much attention to it, because it was so unattractive. At the same time, one of the people who was funding the project was very keen of me producing a fountain. I did my research, and learned that Houston does have significant, concentrated rainfalls certain times of the year, but then they have very dry seasons. There is a real water conservation issue in Texas, and in Houston in particular. It seemed to me irresponsible to create a mechanical fountain where water would be wasted. The combination of this run-off water from the roof, and the scupper seemed to me like we could have a passive water feature that happens when the rain falls. That got me thinking about creation myths. There was a tribe of Native people, Karankawa, now extinct – they vanished in the 1820s; they would go to Galveston, and actually Houston was closer to the water than it is today. There were huge oyster mountains from that period, going back thousands of years, when the Natives would cast off shells. And, there was this beautiful pile of shells that I was looking at; the Karankawa had this beautiful creation myth that the first of their people lived in a giant oyster shell in the sky. The child was born as the son of the moon. And the son of the moon cradled, and rocked the cradle, and fell to earth, becoming the first Karankawa. The moon was so distressed by what happened that she would periodically cry, and create these incredible thunderstorms that are part of the Houston experience. I thought that was such a beautiful myth, and that was the answer. I created this giant oyster shell that replaced the scupper. When it rains, the water cascades onto a pile made of hundreds of cast aluminum shells, and the sculpture becomes active when the rain is happening. So, there is a water feature at the University of Houston, it’s just not mechanical, it happens naturally. I should mention in this case, as much as I like to work with local crafts people – the foundation was done by Houston people, but the actual sculpture itself was fabricated in Saugerties by Scott Kolb, the son of pianist Justin Kolb.
SD: You always want to understand first the local scene, then come up with a concept that tells a story. In the case of the University of Houston, when people walk on campus and see this giant oyster shell, they have to think there is a story behind it. Now let’s talk about the Manhattan Bridge project, which will be completed in a couple of weeks.
THE MANHATTAN BRIDGE PROJECT
BT: It’s eight years in the making. If any of you have been on the Brooklyn side of the Manhattan Bridge, until very recently it was a very chaotic spot. About ten years ago the City decided to create a green belt across Flatbush Avenue, and created more order there. I was the first to be commissioned to make what we hope to be a series of sculptures that will be introduced along the Avenue in future years. As part of my research, I wanted to understand why it was that on the Manhattan side of the very same bridge there is a more elegant entry, while on the Brooklyn side there was this no man’s land. As it turned out, it wasn’t always the case. There once was a very grand entrance, so grand in fact that included two sculptures, two allegories by Daniel Chester French, who some of you may know sculpted Lincoln for the Lincoln Memorial, among other noteworthy sculptures. Those two sculptures were removed, and brought to the Brooklyn Museum when Robert Moses, the great power broker, was planning the trans-Manhattan expressway, which would have destroyed what we know as the SoHo neighborhood. On the Manhattan side the historical preservationists were far more organized, and they prevented that from happening there, but on the Brooklyn side they weren’t so organized, and Moses went away, and destroyed this grand plaza. And then the project was halted, and we were left with this mess. In the 1960s Moses saw history and art as an obstruction to progress. And here in the 21st century I am being asked to enhance the neighborhood by bringing art there. It made perfect sense to me that we bring the two ladies back. The two sculptures that Chester French sculpted for the bridge are allegories: one represents Miss Brooklyn, and the other one represents Miss Manhattan. They currently sit on the façade of the Brooklyn Museum which cooperated greatly with us to make this project happen. So I’ve re-created the two sculptures, cast in a beautiful translucent, white acrylic. I’ve set them on top of a pedestal that is 26 feet high – the design is inspired by the footing of the Manhattan Bridge. In fact the base is being painted Manhattan Bridge blue, to make the connection back to the bridge. The two sculptures sit on top of this pedestal, very close together. Miss Manhattan and Miss Brooklyn will dance over Flatbush Avenue because the two figures actually rotate, and they can survey their surrounding area, and gaze into each other’s eyes periodically. And they’re lit at night. I have to say, this entire project is made by crafts people in New York City.
SD: Do you ordinarily work with many crafters to help you materialize your ideas? Is it you who decides what materials should be used, and how to be used? Do you have lots of engaging conversations with the crafters to see your work completed the way you envision it? I know you don’t start a new project with preconceived ideas, but how does it work?
BT: I know what I’m looking for when I see it, but I rely on people who are spending a lot of their time doing certain things, like this man Ovidiu at Colbar – he’s the most remarkable craftsperson, and he’s committed his life to making beautiful things. Once I see the material, I open up to learning more about the material, what its capabilities are, what the possibilities are. So, it’s part of this fortification process where the craftsperson is actually teaching me something. The biggest mistake an artist can make is to force people to make something they may know it’s not going to be optimal. My position has always been “speak to the people who know better, let them show you what they can do.” Every instance the project is better than if I had gone ahead with what I thought I had wanted.
SD: When we allow ourselves this kind of freedom, we discover things we couldn’t have imagined before.
BT: Precisely. We make changes until the very end, which is a little nerve-racking for the clients.
SD: You’ve created quite a few public art projects as well as museum and gallery pieces. Do private collectors also come to you, and commission you to design projects just for them?
BT: I’m very fortunate that I have a very loyal collector base. This handful of collectors have been following me around for over twenty-five years, and they’ve always been supportive. I haven’t done a commission in a private residency, but I did a commission for the New School, which Parsons is part of. I did a sculpture for the President’s private reception which was installed a while ago. I’ve recently been asked to consider designing an office suite for a company, which is an interesting proposition, because often times art consultants are hired to select tasteful, interesting works. In this case the consultant came up with the idea of having one artist design all of the works for the office.
SD: You explained that each project is different: the University of Houston invited you directly to submit a proposal. In the case of the Manhattan Bridge project, there was a competition, and you won that competition. How do you feel about showing in public spaces as opposed to galleries and museums?
BT: It’s very different. I teach a course at Parsons on public art. We go through the different art movements, let’s say from the 1960s onward when artists who have influenced me like Agnes Denes and Robert Smithson were making art in public spaces by choice. These are people who rejected the gallery system, because they understood that it was commercially driven and in some cases limiting. I came out of school after the economy had collapsed in the late 1980s and well into the 1990s, and graduating even from a place as prestigious as Yale in 1994 there wasn’t a whole lot of hope to get gallery representation. There wasn’t something that we expected. I guess the difference is that when you show in a museum or gallery you have a captive audience – you have people who frequent these places, you have a collector base who supports these places. There is no way of controlling, nor would you want to control the audience in a public space, so you never know who is going to come across a project, and how they might respond to it. In the case of the Irish Hunger Memorial, it’s been a privilege that so many important writers of our time have written about, Simon Schama wrote a piece for The New Yorker magazine, Roberta Smith did a wonderful piece for The New York Times, but Verlyn Klinkenborg, who is on the editorial board of the Times, wrote a beautiful piece, and the most resonant thing he said was that the power of the Irish Hunger Memorial is that it trusts the intelligence of its audience.
BORDERING UTOPIA – BRIAN TOLLE RETROSPECTIVE AT THE UNIVERSITY AT ALBANY’S ART MUSEUM
SD: Currently on view at the Museum of Art at SUNY Albany there is a retrospective show called “Bordering Utopia: Sculptures by Brian Tolle.” Let’s talk about this show, which will remain on view through December 12 this year. How many works are included in this exhibition?
BT: Corinna Ripps Schaming, the curator of the museum, has been incredibly committed to understanding my twenty year career. We found works that were with collectors in different parts of the country. We even borrowed a beautiful piece from the Tang Museum. I would say there are about two dozen pieces in this show.
SD: What are some of the pieces exhibited there?
BT: The earlier pieces that I made were made of Styrofoam, a material relatively inexpensive. I could achieve a certain scale. One of the nice things that happened with this show has to do with my first show, which included Colonial American frames and windows, and these enormous beams. When Corinna came to the studio about two years ago to talk about the exhibition she fell in love with these beams. And we brought them to the museum in Albany, without any idea of how they might be displayed. It became very clear that they would be this sort of relief sculpture, no longer a sculptural object, but a sculpture that could really be appreciated in relief. For the first time the public is being given the opportunity to appreciate the carving of the beams. It’s completely hand-carved by me.
SD: Another piece included in this show is Witch Catcher, a giant chimney made out of Styrofoam as well.
BT: There have been three Witch Catchers. The first one I produced is the one that’s at SUNY Albany now. Going back to my thirty year old self, I literally cut off about 2,000 Styrofoam bricks and then stacked them as a child would stack them to create a spiral. I would stack them over and over to push them as far as I could. When I finally got to the point when they fell over, I knew that that was the limit of how far I can twist it. There were basically 2,000 Styrofoam bricks that were glued together, and painted.
SD: Let’s talk about the Levittown project.
BT: Levittown was built as a post-war development: William Levitt built 17,500 houses in the potatoes fields in Long Island. There is often a political subtext in many of the projects that I’ve done. In the case of Levitt, one of the things that intrigued me was this classic Cape Cod house that he replicated 17,000 times. Of the 17,000 houses only a handful of them still maintain their original form. I realized that this image of the Cape Cod house was vanishing rapidly, so I made a model out of wood about the scale of a dog house. I actually went out to Levittown and knocked on people’s doors, saying “you got an original door knob, do you mind if I measure and take pictures of it?” Someone gave me an original asbestos shingle that they had in their garage. So we pieced together a house that does no longer exists. We cast twenty of these houses using platinum silicon rubber, so it’s very flexible. The idea was to stretch the house over objects that might have been associated with that period. The installation explores the image that most of us would associate with the 1940s and ‘50s.
SD: Looking back at your career, what do you think has changed after all these years?
BT: It’s very difficult to predict where a career might go. I was somebody who made objects, made things by hand, I made them myself, I didn’t rely on other people to make them. I worked with very limited means. As I’ve gotten more and more involved in public art projects, I became more reliant on other people to provide me with services to build things. And things became more and more abstract. The piece that is being loaned by the Tang Museum was donated. The piece was never taken out of the crate: the collector never installed the piece; he had wanted to, but never got around to it. The piece had remained in the crate since it was purchased in the 1990s. We got to look at this piece for the first time since it was made. It’s twenty years old, and it’s made of Styrofoam, it began to shift a little bit, nothing extreme, but enough that I had to make some repairs. Going through the sculpture and trying to re-think “how did I do that?” Not that it was complicated at all, it was the opposite, but I had to re-think how things were made, I had to re-think how things were painted, and it’s actually been an eye-opening experience for me because my career is growing in such a way that I don’t have the opportunity to make things in the way that I once did. And I really do think that I want to go back to that hands-on approach. It’s something very liberating about being able to put some things together and make meaning out of them.
SD: Talk a little about your studio here in Roxbury. It’s one of the most prominent edifices as you come into town going north.
BT: When I got out of grad school, I rented a 2,000 square foot store front in Williamsburg. I actually shared the space with a classmate of mine. Two years ago when my lease expired, the rent increased tenfold. Growing up on Long Island, I was drawn to something different, I was always drawn to the mountains. Many years ago my partner Brian and I spent a summer traveling through the Catskills, and settled in this area. We bought a small house outside of Fleischmanns. My dad drove past here in Roxbury, and said “you know, there’s a church for sale; I don’t know if you can afford it, I don’t know how much a church cost, but you might want to look at it.” When I drove up to it, I was so pleased with the humble nature of the building. When you think of a Catholic church, you think of a much more elaborate edifice. This one was such a modest building, but very-very beautifully built. The church was erected in 1925. We bought it intact. This was the perfect place for us to work. We needed the open space, we needed the height, it’s in the village, it’s very convenient for us. The quality of the building supports the kind of work that we do here. Because we’re very-very meticulous in what we do. There are twenty-six stained glass windows in the building. Five of them are visible from the façade, but not from the interior. And I opened up for the first time in the history of this church one of these windows; I intend to do the same with the rest of them. Our priority up until this point was to develop the interior of the building. We’re committed to preserving its historical value.
SD: What is your next project?
BT: I travel quite a bit, developing projects. My next exhibition will be at the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts in Philadelphia in June 2016. That particular work for example is called “Commander in Chief” – it’s all about American presidents. Seven years ago I spent a summer reading every presidential inaugural address, and responded through sculpture. The Pennsylvania Academy has an extraordinary collection of Americana, historical portraiture and sculpture, so I’m going to inject my sculptures into the collection, in conversation with historical objects.
Lisbeth Firmin was born in Paducah, Kentucky in 1949. She is a contemporary American realist known for her urban landscapes. For over four decades her work has been in hundreds of solo and group shows across the country and internationally. There was a retrospective exhibition at the Taft School in Watertown, CT in 2011, featuring painting and prints from 1994-2010. In 2010, Firmin’s monoprint, “Heading to Work, Varick Street” won ‘Best in Show’ in WSKG’s annual Art in Motion Competition in Binghamton, NY. Her paintings were included in the 2009 Winter Issue, Stone Canoe Review, Syracuse University. She was cover artist for the 2008 spring issue of Epoch, Cornell University’s literary magazine and was the featured artist in the 2008 summer issue of the Gettysburg Review. Her urban landscape paintings were included in “Five Women Artists in New York,” curated by Ken Ratner, Flushing Town Hall, 2008. Awards include a 2007 New York Foundation for the Arts Fellowship for printmaking (Lily Auchincloss Fellow) and a Merit Award at the 2007 Roberson Regional Art Exhibition, Binghamton, NY, juried by Philip Pearlstein. Firmin was awarded a Community Arts Funding Grant, New York State Council on the Arts in 2007. Other awards include a Pollock-Krasner Foundation Grant, the New York Print Club Emerging Artist Award, the CCVA Award at the Chautauqua Center for the Visual Arts, first prize in the LANA International Arts Competition; along with full fellowships to the MacDowell Colony, National Seashore Residency, the Vermont Studio Center and Saltonstall Arts Colony. She was a guest artist (printmaking) at the Vermont Studio Center from 2001 to 2004, working with master printer Sarah Amos.
Selected publications include: Provincetown Arts, American Artist, American Art Collector, McDougal Littell/LITERATURE, The Boston Globe, Art and Auction, Art of Our Town, The New York Times, Arts Magazine, The Banner (Provincetown), The Albuquerque Journal, and The Sarasota Herald-Tribune.
I spoke with Lisbeth Firmin in her studio in Margaretville, New York.
Simona David: How did you become an artist?
Lisbeth Firmin: This is a picture of me at three. I’m left-handed, and seriously trying to stay in the lines. I started my brilliant career right there.
SD: One could say that you were born with an innate talent.
LF: What I can say is that I could draw since I could remember. I could always draw something that looked like something. Kids love to draw, and they all draw the same way when they’re young. But when they get older, they want to draw something that looks like something, and can’t – and that’s the difference: I could always do it. So I kept on doing it.
SD: Did your parents notice immediately that you had this amazing talent?
LF: Not immediately, but I started winning scholarships when I was 10 or 11 years old. I was sent to an art institute where we lived. I was sent there with these teenagers and 20 year old artists, and I was only 12. That was an eye-opener.
SD: Were you a mature child, or everybody knew you were just a 12 year old?
LF: Everybody knew, but I was accepted because I could draw, and my drawing had this vigor in it. I was full of energy, and even at that age I had a style of my own.
SD: You already had your own style when you were 12. After forty years of artistic career, do you think you still maintain something of that style?
LF: Yes. I think so.
SD: Do you have formal training as an artist?
LF: No. I won these scholarships to art institutes – one in Indianapolis and one in Los Angeles. I wanted to go to art school, but my father wasn’t going to pay for it – he didn’t think I was serious about it. It was also the late 1960s, and everything was falling apart. I went to the University of California at Santa Barbara for a year in a liberal arts program, and took as much art as I could. I took just exactly what I wanted to take, and got really good grades. The second year I didn’t go back.
SD: So you continued to be self-taught, and continued to draw and paint.
LF: Yes, constantly. It just poured out of me. I was doing all kinds of things: I was doing prints, and drawings, and collages. I didn’t have my subject matter down. What draws me is painting what I see – translating what I see into a painting or a drawing.
SD: During your formative period were you working with other artists to develop your skills? Or perhaps you had someone in mind you wanted to emulate?
LF: Artists have this kind of creative bent. And I’ve always been curious, and always had a ton of energy. When I was in Provincetown I studied with Philip Malicoat. He was good friends with Edwin Dickinson, a very good painter, who is in a lot of big collections. I spent a winter working with Malicoat in his studio. He taught me how to paint, and how to lay out the palette. That was in the 1970s.
SD: You spent the 1970s in Provincetown, in a bohemian artistic community. Talk about that period in your life and career.
LF: I believe the hayday of that artistic community was a bit earlier when Hans Hofmann was around, and everybody from New York City came up, Pollock, everybody. I lived in Provincetown for a decade. I worked in the theater there. I was also painting a lot, and selling: my friends were buying my work. I was also a street artist for a time: I was doing portraits for tourists. It was an amazing period.
SD: In the early 1980s you moved to New York City. Let’s talk about your artistic trajectory in the Big Apple.
LF: It’s funny. I was visiting friends in New York City, and had my trunk full of collages I was bringing as gifts to my friends. I was stopped in front of a gallery, and the gallery owner saw the collages, and offered me a show. I thought if that was that easy to get a show in New York City, I’d stay. It was a great show, it got great reviews.
SD: That was in 1978 at Marie Pelliconi Gallery in New York City, a show called Souvenir Collages.
LF: Yes. I had twenty collages in that show. It got Holly Solomon interested in my work, which is a pretty big deal, but I wasn’t ready.
SD: What happened next?
LF: I guess there is a big gap in my resume. From 1979 to mid 1980s I was just trying to survive and bring up my daughter. I got a job as a graphic designer that was paying a decent salary. I would paint at night after my daughter went to bed. At one point I did a whole series on cockroaches, because we had so many of them. I was also doing some landscape, some subway stuff. I was doing all work on paper. I didn’t start painting in oil until the late 1980s. Back then I was doing gouaches or collages, all kinds of images.
SD: And in the late 1980s you started to paint in oil.
LF: Yes. What happened was that I was trying to decide what I was going to do, and I walked out of my apartment on Sullivan Street, and I said that’s it: I’m going to paint what I see. I did thirty gouaches – small 10 x 10 gouaches. I had an open studio party, and I sold every single one of my paintings. I knew I was into something, and I had so much fun doing it. I was painting things I didn’t know I could paint: police horses, cabs, people – people started to appear in my paintings. My career just started to take off, right after that.
SD: Taking off, like showing in galleries?
LF: Yes. I started working in oil paint, and showing urban landscapes in galleries. And people started buying them. I began to do one new show every year. I was producing a ton of work at this point, and had some big names interested in me like Allan Stone.
SD: Nowadays you also make monoprints. What is the process?
LF: I work on plexiplates, and apply ink, and then use rags to create a pattern; I press on paper, then pull out the print, and clean the plexiplate for future use. I learned to do this at Parsons: I took a class there in 1991. It’s an amazing medium, it’s called the painterly print.
SD: Talk about these two monoprints you have here.
LF: I made these in the early 1990s. I come from a small town in Maine called Eastport. They have an art institute there – Tides Institute. In 2013 they offered me a show – these monoprints were shown there in an exhibit called Coming Home.
SD: How do you choose what to work on? How do you decide what comes next?
LF: I can’t explain that. It’s a visceral thing. I could be walking around, and doing grocery shopping or some other mundane stuff like that. And I see something, and I say “I want to paint that.” I don’t even verbalize it. It’s more like “I could paint that, I want to paint that.” Now I always have my iPhone with me. And what’s happening these days is that I see something about the light on a figure, and this is what interests me. And it is just coming naturally to me these days: I know where to put the paint, and how to capture the light. I’m moving away from buildings and streetscapes.
SD: What role do colors play in your approach?
LF: It’s a good question. But honestly it’s not about the colors. It’s more about the light and the shadow: that’s what gets me. For instance, last year I was in Barcelona and painted this woman on the street: I wanted to get her in the dark, in the shadow of those buildings, and moving towards the corner of the street where the light was blasting. It was the light – I knew I wanted to paint the light, not the color. Generally I paint with pretty muted colors.
SD: Talk about your style. You describe yourself as a realist painter. Some have called you an expressionist realist.
LF: It is realism – old-fashioned realism, but somehow unique. What I notice every time I’m in a group show is that my work never looks like anybody else’s.
SD: What kinds of works are usually exhibited along with yours?
LF: I enter various competitions like this show at the Bonner David Galleries in Scottsdale, Arizona called What’s Your Favorite City? Or various shows upstate New York like for instance Artists of the Mohawk-Hudson Region at the Hyde Collection Museum in Glens Falls, or the 63rd Exhibition of the Central New York Artists at the Munson-Williams-Proctor Arts Institute in Utica. My work just never looks like anybody else’s work.
SD: Would you name any artist as being influential to your work?
LF: I have painters that I really admire. When I started painting the City I compared myself to John Sloan and George Bellows and all those guys known as The Eight. I was painting the streets of Manhattan, just like they were doing a hundred years earlier. So I thought I was carrying on that tradition. But I think my work has evolved beyond that.
SD: You’ve been represented by the same dealer for quite some time now.
LF: Yes. I’m lucky. My dealer has stayed with me for 15 years while transitioning from urban landscape to figural painting. Her name is Marla Rice. She owns Rice- Polack Gallery in Provincetown, where I sell a lot of work.
SD: How does your work make you feel?
LF: I know that when I work for about a year or so to produce new works for a show, and then they’re gone and the walls are empty, I don’t like it and feel compelled to fill up those walls again.
SD: What kind of feedback do you get from your followers?
LF: What I do is so instinctive, yet it seems to have an emotional connection with the public. I know that I’m emotionally repressed, but I think it comes out through my paintings. People tell me they get an emotional reaction to my paintings.
SD: Talk a bit about the artistic process.
LF: I’m mixing the colors to get it right, and that takes a long time, because I mix all the colors that I want to use, and then I start painting and I’m still in the real world, but then after about an hour I’m not in the real world anymore. I am somewhere else – I don’t even know what time it is. I’m just in this amazing mindset, I can’t even describe it.
SD: How has your style changed over the years?
LF: It’s hard for me to say. The medium is the same – a lot of work in gouache on paper, but the subject matter is different. And the brushstroke has gotten more confident, I guess.
SD: What are you working on now?
LF: I’m preparing a show for 2016 in Provincetown. I show there every other year. Over half of the new oils I showed last year sold.
SD: Do you have a favorite painting?
LF: Every once in a while a new painting will come out that is magical. I don’t know where it comes from. “Woman on A Train,” painted last year, was such a painting. Everyone who saw it was moved by it. It sold before the show opened: Marla told me she could have sold this painting twenty times.
SD: You’ve received many awards and recognitions such as the New York Foundation for the Arts Fellowship in Printmaking in 2007, the Chautauqua Center for the Visual Arts Award in 2003, a MacDowell Colony Fellowship in 2000, a Manhattan Arts International Award of Excellence in 2000, a Pollock-Krasner Foundation Grant in 1999, and many others. What do these recognitions mean to you?
LF: Every time I win something I feel like I am on the right road. I feel like I have something special to give, and I just want to keep it pure, and give it. I also think all these early awards came to the right time to propel me to push myself to the next level.
SD: Your work is in many collections, including the Munson-Williams-Proctor Arts Institute in Utica, New York Historical Society in New York City, Vermont Studio Center, but also corporate collections such as Thomson Reuters and Barclay Investments in New York City. That must be feeling really good.
LF: Yes. Some of these works were done on commission for corporate collections.
SD: You’ve been shown in many solo and group shows all over the country and internationally. What are some of your favorite moments?
LF: What I really like about being shown in galleries is that it pushes me to meet deadlines. I know I have to have a certain amount of work done by a certain date, and I’m enjoying the need to produce.
Didier Cremieux is a New York City based painter and illustrator. Born and raised in Clermont l’Herault in southern France, Didier moved to the United States in 1977. He majored in literature and art history at the Université Paul Valery in Montpellier, France. Upon his arrival to the U.S., Didier furthered his studies in photography in Oklahoma City, and etching and lithography at Antioch College in Ohio, along with apprenticeships and jobs in printmaking and graphic design. Along his career, Didier experimented with various printing techniques from silk screening to etching and Xerox or letterpress printing. His artwork has appeared in numerous magazines and newspapers. Didier also designs book illustrations, posters for various events, and promotional materials for the music industry. As a painter, he is mostly interested in City scapes and still lifes.
Didier had an exhibit at the Orphic Gallery in Roxbury this past fall, called “Postal Mix Tapes.” The exhibit included hand-made stamp sheets and posters celebrating music and music history.
Simona David: Didier, talk a little bit about your training as a painter and illustrator.
Didier Cremieux: When I came to the U.S. my formal training was in literature and art history, and I was also a painter. Then slowly I moved into the graphic arts, as a source of employment, to supplement the fine arts.
SD: Do you still paint?
DC: I still paint quite a bit. I’ve always painted. It’s like I have two outputs that I have. The graphic art is a tradition that goes back to the history of the posters; that is something that I’ve always been fond of, and that I’ve designed for a long time. A lot of my work, for example, has to do with music. So I did music packaging, and posters for bands, and stuff like that. It’s just a tradition from the posters of Toulouse-Lautrec to the psychedelic posters of the West Coast, then the punk posters, and the Xerox machine. This is a tradition that I think I belong to.
SD: The golden age of illustration was roughly considered to be from the 1880s to the 1920s. And you mentioned Toulouse-Lautrec. How is your work today as an illustrator different than that of an illustrator’s from the early 1900s, both from a technical and artistic standpoint?
DC: With the arrival of the digital age we moved away from the traditional printing on paper and ink, and switched to digital files. From what I’ve seen in editorial illustrations for magazines, the artist may very well start with pen and paper, but then he would finish the layout on the computer. Throughout the 1980s and most of the 1990s I used to deliver illustrations on paper. And then towards the end of the 1990s every single magazine I worked with switched to digital production. One thing that really changed is the way you work as illustrator. It used to be like the editorial team would meet and discuss the project. The illustrator would meet with the creative director and get the outline of the project, he would read the article or the draft of the article that was going to appear, and then would deliver pencil sketches via the fax machine. Now it’s all done by email using digital files. You don’t sit in an office anymore, and talk about how everything is done. There is no more human contact involved. It changed the human relationship that the illustrator has with the production team.
SD: There is A National Museum of American Illustration in Rhode Island; on their website at americanillustration.org they say that illustration is “the most American of American art.” There is a tradition of illustration in this country going back to Norman Rockwell. People value illustrations, they collect magazine covers, or clippings, or something like that. I hope this beautiful tradition will be continued in some manner. You seem to have adapted to digital technology.
DC: Yes. A lot of artists went from working with the brush to working with the computer, and replaced ink with pixels. But I think, in a positive way, that brought all kinds of new styles, with all kinds of possibilities. Again, illustration is part fine art, and part commercial art. And, there are a lot of parameters that have to be followed in commercial art. Personally, I really like doing this sort of thing on the computer, and making changes, and offering all kinds of versions with colors or anything else.
SD: You work both on fine art projects as well as commercial art. How is your work different when you work on a fine art project compared to a commercial one?
DC: I did less illustration work in the past few years; the market has gotten quite a bit smaller, because of the crisis in the paper publishing. When a magazine goes digital, they sometimes do use illustrations, but again, it’s different. Also, trade publications are using more and more in-house designers as opposed to hiring outside illustrators.
SD: Let’s talk specifically, when you work on a project, where do you start, how do you decide on a style or an approach?
DC: It really depends on the project. My approach is completely different for a fine art project than a commercial one. The illustration work is more the work of a collaboration, of your skills being used for a bigger project. If I create a piece of art that’s going to illustrate a story, I need to create a visual that supports the story and makes quick associations with the concept of that article, but it’s also a visual that appeals to people so they read the story. That’s for magazine illustration. For book illustration is a bit different. The book illustrator and the writer are kind on the same level; on one side you have the text, on the other side you have the illustration, and maybe sometimes the two combined; but the two of them are almost like equal. What you’re doing with the illustration is offering one possible visual to the world that is in the story that the visual supports. That’s how I work: this is the story, and this is my narrative, my view of the story. What I mostly like about illustration is this collaborative effort.
SD: Who influences you, who do you admire, and how do you go about improving what you do?
DC: I started designing posters when I was 14, growing up in southern France, in a small village. I started a print studio with friends, we really had to come up with something to entertain ourselves. We were driven, interested in the creative things. We would do posters for events, or just ideas that we had. And we started showing them to people, we started doing shows. When I paint or do prints for myself, personal aspects come first. When I work on illustrations for various projects, it’s the collaborative process that matters most.
SD: How do you decide what to work on?
DC: The show that I did at Orphic Gallery in Roxbury, called “Postal Mix Tapes,” is a project that goes back to the 1980s. Around that time in San Francisco I met a lot of artists that were involved in the mail art movement, if you can call such a thing a movement. It was all about mail art, it was about exchanging pieces of mail with art on the envelope; it was also about experimenting with new machines, like the Xerox machine, at first black and white, and then color. Artists were experimenting. But again, there was this whole idea of the mail art. Stamps have always exerted a fascination for me since childhood. It was a very popular, democratic process for people to just look at pictures. And these pictures were always commemorating something. When I was a child I was very fond of stamps from around the world commemorating space. It was very great art, but in a small format. In the 1960s I also liked a series of stamps commemorating castles and monuments in France. They were really beautiful, with really beautiful engravings. I really loved collecting those.
SD: Let’s talk specifically about your show at Orphic Gallery.
DC: When I got in touch with Philip Lenihan, and decided to do a show about postage stamps, about music, I went back to some of the work that I had already done, and started adding quite a bit more. The main idea was to really follow the concept of stamps, which is a commemoration. It’s like we put out this stamp to celebrate this or that event. What I wanted to celebrate with this show was my very personal interaction with music throughout my life. So I did different sheets of stamps for various styles of music that I’ve enjoyed throughout my life.
SD: I also collected stamps as a child. Going back to your profession of designing stamps, does anyone else today either collects or designs stamps? How common is this?
DC: I’m not really sure. Collecting stamps is still very traditional. But, as you noticed, in the last 10 – 15 years stamps have changed quite a bit – now they look more like stickers. You can also go online and print your own personalized stamps, even with your own images. Traditionally stamps have always been linked to history. When I was a child I had all these stamps from my father, who had stamps from his father, so it was just an album that just kept growing for three generations.
SD: Looking back at your career as a printmaker and illustrator, and you’re also a painter, how has your style changed over time?
DC: The style for me has always been about experimenting with paint, paper, cardboard, different materials that I use. And in the fine arts the evolution of the digital world just added another dimension to that. A lot of my work combines the analog and the digital method, like working on a computer print, then paint on top of that, or add elements of color that the printer could not do, such as for example gold bleach, or special varnishes in different areas.
SD: Is there any project you’re working on right now that you would like to talk about?
DC: I would like to talk a bit more about the show at Orphic Gallery in Roxbury. One thing about this show was the music, and the way my generation experienced music. In the late 1960s and 1970s music played such a big part in our lives; for one thing you bought an LP or a record, and the artwork was absolutely beautiful. One of my first experiences with art was looking at record covers, and really falling in love with that form of art – photography, illustration, painting. And then there was so much more in those albums than just music. It could change your life, and the way you looked at the world. That music may have had messages and aspirations that went way beyond just a commercial product. The show at Orphic Gallery was really about that. I really enjoyed the show because it gave me the opportunity to talk about this. A lot of people came to me, and shared experiences of their own.
SD: I attended the opening reception at Orphic Gallery on October 11; that was a very nice show. You showed stamps with icons like soprano Maria Callas, legendary jazz musician Thelonious Monk, a Balkan Band – I believe Goran Bregovic was on one of your stamps. I remember asking you if you had met all these musicians.
DC: It’s not that I met them. But in some ways once I discovered their music, it was something very powerful. For example, regarding the Balkan music, one day I stumbled into Central Park, and there was the Summer Stage Festival, and there was this musician and his Wedding Band Orchestra playing this music that I never heard before. I was really taken by the rhythm, by the power of the bass dominating every other sound. That was something extremely appealing, almost like a trance. I had never heard any kind of sound like that. I went to a record store, and asked about that kind of music. I had to hear more of that; it was truly fascinating.
SD: And you also paint. What subjects are you drawn into?
DC: I like to paint New York City scapes, this is my idea of landscape. I never work from an image, I always work from memory. The colors and the geometric shapes show New York City landscape, but a bit in a more abstract way. I also like to paint images that immediately bring you to the southern France, for example hills or this tree that I’ve always had a fascination for – cypress; it’s a tree that is found in Europe, especially in southern lands. And third, I like to paint still lifes – vases or pots with flowers. I do not work with any specific flowers, but it’s my own take on those shapes.
SD: So, it’s all about the visual appeal of a painting.
DC: Yes, and also it’s comfort. Looking at an abstract painting, but still seeing an image in that painting. It touches people, because this is how maybe they interpreted something – they didn’t see a landscape, they saw geometrical shapes. I am trying to tell people that this is my interpretation of my own experience with the landscape.
You can find more about Didier Cremieux at didiercremieux.com.
Re-posted from Short Compositions on Life, Art, PR and More (originally posted on 5.15.2009)
Situated on Fifth Avenue, nearby the Metropolitan Museum of Art and overlooking Central Park, Guggenheim Museum is one of the main attractions on the touristic map of New York City. The Museum is home to major 20th century art works by Picasso, Braque, Chagall, Miro, Magritte, Dali, Modigliani, Kandinsky, Brancusi as well as 19th century masterpieces by Manet, Monet, Renoir, Cezanne, Van Gogh and many more. The museum hosts a beautiful collection of impressionist, post-impressionist, expressionist and surrealist art, which ensures Guggenheim’s status as one of the most important museums of modern art in the world.
Philanthropist and art collector Solomon Guggenheim originally opened the museum in 1937, but as his collection continued to grow, he hired architect Frank Lloyd Wright to design a new building. The building designed by Wright, which opened in 1959, is a masterpiece in itself: the gallery is designed in the form of a helical spiral, starting at the ground level and going up to the top of the building. Art works are displayed along the walls of the spiral as well as in small annexes attached to the central exhibition space. A big skylight is placed at the center of the building.
I visited the museum for the first time a couple of years ago and did get to see an important part of its collection. To mention some of the most beautiful, “Woman with Yellow Hair” (Picasso, 1931), “Accordionist” (Picasso, 1911), “Green Violinist” (Chagall, 1923), “The Clarinet” (Braque, 1912) and “Composition 8” (Kandinsky, 1923). Picasso’s and Braque’s paintings are a faithful reflection of their cubist and surrealist periods, whereas Kandinsky is the expressionist par excellence. As for Chagall, anytime I find myself in front of any of his paintings, I am under the impression that the artist was dreaming with open eyes when painting: houses upside down, planes interrupted and juxtaposed, people floating through space.
Picasso’s “Woman with Yellow Hair” depicts a curved profile of a woman with yellow hair and pink skin (the contrast of yellow and pink always being a striking one). The woman is taking a nap on a sofa, while somehow still in a vertical position. “Accordionist” is an expression of Picasso’s analytical cubism period. The object of this painting is deconstructed into small components, displayed in various geometric figures, on nuances of mainly brown, gray and beige.
Chagall’s “Green Violinist” is a cubist masterpiece as well, depicting a violinist in a position that resembles the shape of a violin. He plays violin in a dream-like scenery, wearing a purple coat with geometric figures, a purple hat and checkered pants with unmatched shoes.
“Composition 8” by Kandinsky is a mix of circles, semi-circles, triangles, quadrilaterals and lines, arranged in various forms and colors, representative for the abstract art of the 20th century. As a matter of fact, this year Kandinsky’s work will be subject to an ample retrospective, hosted by Guggenheim Museum as it celebrates its 50th anniversary.
If you are in the neighborhood this summer, you may want to visit.