Some Thoughts at Seventy-seven

At 77, after more than 50 years of making art, my enthusiasm has not diminished. In fact, it’s stronger. Every morning I look forward to working in my studio, if only to straighten things or read a book. It is where I can indulge my joy. I love trying to do things I haven’t done, don’t know or understand. “Tell him it is impossible and then he gets interested,” was how a personality assessment test described my character. 

Two weeks ago I finished my one-hundredth unique small book. Each book is twelve pages plus covers. The project took four years. The last ten books were the most difficult. It felt as if I had exhausted all my ideas. After months of false starts, I finally came up with a solution: I reinterpreted old drawings and prints; cast about for new/old materials; and invented “The Miscellaneous Eye,” the name of one of the last books.  When I was done, I ordered ten new books of blank pages.

Age has taught me that “progress,” when applied to my artwork, is an inaccurate term. “Confidence” is more correct.  Now I am  confident that a special engagement will take place between myself and the medium. That translates into “just keep working, it will bear fruit.”

The art that happens continues to mystify me. I work and rework the image. Sometimes colors trigger the process. Sometimes a form emerges out of the confusion, or suddenly the picture announces, “I’m done!”

I’ve become accustomed to my morning struggle, my preceding evening’s sleep having primed my imagination. Keeping one’s mind open, active, insightful, inventive, and resilient is especially important as one ages. Art has given me these gifts.

As the oldest living member of my extended family, I “carry the family torch.”  Often my thoughts turn to my parents, aunts, uncles, and forefathers, all deceased.Their struggles paved the way for my life today, with benefits they could never imagine. The publication of my book, “Traces of Sepharad, Etchings of Judeo-Spanish Proverbs,” was my way of saying “thank you,” to my extended family and our forefathers. 

So with hope, courage and surprise, I look forward to a new year of life and art.

Repainting a Finished Painting

Still Life. Acrylic on canvas board. 18” x 14.” 1994.

Version #1. Still Life with Flowers. Acrylic on canvas. 40” x 30.” 2022.

Version #2. Still Life with Flowers. Acrylic on canvas. 40” x 30.” 2023.

Last summer I thought the still life painting was finished, but I was wrong.

It seemed to do what I wanted. Like my 1994 still life painting, I wanted to paint a mysterious vase of flowers, with qualities I admired in the work of Paul Klee. Finally, I liked what I had it, I thought.

In the fall, I drove the painting to NYC, and placed it conspicuously on my living room wall. There it hung through winter and spring, and, as time passed, the more I looked at it the less I liked it. I still liked the basic shapes and the scale of the vase and flowers but the colors seemed bland, and what I thought was “mystery” now resembled instead an indistinct fog. Finally, I just ignored the painting entirely.

I had to repaint it. At the first opportunity, I drove it to my upstate studio, and began. I started by strengthening the original painting, but soon realized that the entire painting had to change. I hated to do it, but new colors and painting techniques were required. I took what I thought was mystery and created more of a glow while changing the colors of the flowers and strengthening the color of the vase. Simplification, I find, often strengthens an image. After a few days the painting was again “finished.” It will take time to determine if this new version will survive or again will have to be reworked.

Evaluation and judgment is intrinsic to every artwork. Decisions are made throughout the process, at every moment. When to stop? When rework? Which color and brush to use? What direction to go in? Even when to take a break.

When the painting is finished, the conundrum continues. Sometimes I am happily surprised by unnoticed qualities in paintings I hardly remember, at other times, I am disappointed by paintings I recall with pleasure and pride.

How to know if a painting works? One option is to wait patiently as the painting unfurls by itself. The intensity of the creative process, with its wonderful surprises and endless frustrations, can distort an artist’s perception. Distance is what is needed, and that is what time allows. But just as a painting changes in the eyes and hands of the painter, so does the painter change in the process of making and seeing the painting.

So the short answer is to trust in your instinct. If it feels wrong or unfinished, then probably it is. Summon up your patience and courage and do what is necessary. It will probably turn out better. If not, just cover the work in white paint and start again.

Postcard Art.

@NYPL Hudson Park Branch

April 1- April 28. 2023

66 Leroy Street, NY

*check with library for times.

Strictly speaking, this show should be called “Art Using Postcards.”  Most postcards were mass-printed. I use these common postcards as a foundation for one-of-a-kind artwork. Each of my postcards is unique. 

Initially, the sheer variety of images on cards attracted my attention. There is a postcard for almost everything. Then I noticed that the address side carried a message beyond what was written. It embodied the life history of the postcard itself. I started to see them as small paintings. Now I use both sides, image and message/address side.

Postcards are fragile. They show the wear-and-tear of postal and family handling, weather, accidental spillage, tears, and age. These qualities can serve as a subtext. They may suggest an image or design or provide a texture or pattern. 

In making my cards, I employ a number of techniques and materials:  paint, pencil, pen, wax crayon, magic markers, India Ink, printing methods, and collage.

On occasion, I will even mail them.

Am I or Am I Not? Inside & Outside The Outsider Art Fair

Recently, I attended The Outsider Art Fair in New York. It was packed with wonderful artwork, curious people browsing the booths, and some serious collectors.

For personal reasons, the show was illuminating. I have been called an “outsider artist,” so I was curious to see the work of artists similarly labeled. Frankly, I didn’t see much resemblance. 

True, I never received a formal art training. Instead, I spent almost fifteen years working totally alone, isolated from other artists, trying to find my way. The friends I had were uninterested in art, and I was too busy earning a living, 9 to 5 plus, to befriend other artists. My process was trial-and-error. Despite the frustration and frequent failures, I did not give up. I had something to say, and that need drove me onward.

From the onset I grounded myself in the vocabulary of Western and non-Western art. I taught myself by drawing in museums and studying art books. I spent years working from live models. I even stopped using color to better concentrate on composition. I had no idea what I was doing, but I doggedly kept doing it on weekends and evenings after work.

After many years of experimentation, I discovered my style. I realized that my artwork should reflect my Brooklyn working class roots, not classical European art. I must paint like the kid from East New York that I was, not like The School of Paris. I gave up perspective. I flattened out my compositions. Suddenly, the struggle to make artwork became easier, or should I say more natural?

Another important realization came in the 1970’s while attending a New School class on Primitive Art with Edmund Carpenter, a well-known anthropologist. Carpenter spoke about the magical origins of  early cave art, and how over millennia certain forms migrated across the world (he authored a 15-volume work on the subject). Carpenter’s class clarified what I already sensed: that I wished to root my artwork in existential questions. By loosely allying my work to the earliest art, I hoped it might better endure the test of time.  

That is when I started to define my art as “High and Low.” I use “low” unsophisticated, primitive techniques to portray “high” philosophical and social quandaries. In this way I am simultaneously an art Insider and Outsider.

This duality differentiates me from many outsider artists. Outsider  art is non-traditional, with little or no fine art exposure at all. The art is deeply personal. In a world of their own, they create a unique and often remarkable world out of their imagination. 

Outsider Artists are often compelled by powerful inner forces. This can give outsider art the power of individuality and uniqueness. Sometimes shocking or surprising, Outsider Art has become an inspiration for artists who believe art should not conform with the traditional concepts of beauty. Dubuffet comes to mind.

Some may consider my artwork eccentric. It may be odd—after all “I did it my way”— but that, alone, doesn’t make me an Outsider Artist. Personally, as a consequence of my study of fine art, I think of my artwork as falling into the “classical” category.

I am always careful to avoid an extreme individuality. An extreme subjectivity may lead to eccentricity, and to an art that speaks only to itself. This circular quality can confound or bewilder the viewer. Paintings of personal religious visions sometimes have this affect on me. I am not moved or entranced by someone else’s  revelation. It is too personal. The spiritual references don’t relate to my life experience. On the other hand, the art of Rothko or Matisse offer a sense of the spiritual. 

As I left the art fair, I had a vague feeling of dissatisfaction. 

I felt great admiration for the determination and perseverance of the outsider artists, but I also sensed their loneliness. Unknown, unconcerned with an audience, prey to a multiplicity of inexplicable thoughts, doubts and impulses, they struggle to find a personal vocabulary. 

One of the highlights of the fair were the many works by James Castle, one the best known and most isolated outsider artists. Deaf and mute, Castle lived on a farm, cut off from society, with his financially-strapped extended family. Unemployable, he spent all his time making art. Short of money, Castle used whatever materials were on hand. He mixed soot with saliva, and extracted colors from comic book illustrations. His work is a monument to the power of human creativity, an inspiration, and one good reason to attend the fair.

Am I or Am I Not? I remain inside and outside the world of Outsider Art. My work continues.

Hoarding Art Supplies

I have never met an artist who did not dote on an artist supply catalogue. The most comprehensive catalogue can never be  thick enough.

Artists are also great hoarders. Like squirrels in Fall, painters hoard extra tubes of paint, save new and worn-out brushes, and store extra rolls of canvas. Printers hoard inks, store extra cans of chemicals, multiples of tools, and all varieties of paper. Collage artists fill shelves and binders with ephemera hoping they will find a use for them in the future. Extra supplies are stashed all over the studio.

I confess, I am a hoarder myself. I enjoy purchasing extra supplies. They cheer me up when my enthusiasm for work is waning.  I may already be well stocked or I may have no idea if or when I will use the item. Just the purchase of new supplies (and I include books) is proof of a renewed confidence in myself and in  work. Perhaps the insecurity of a life in art is made a little more secure by a surplus of materials? 

Case in point: pastels. I adore a pastel’s purity of color. For a few years, lacking space in my apartment for a painting easel, I drew on a table with pastels. When airborne pastel dust spread like a miasma throughout the apartment, leaving a black soot on books and surfaces, I was forced—they messed up everything—to put my pastels away in boxes and buried them in a cabinet. I couldn’t imagine needing them again. I used wax crayons instead. 

But you can never know the future. Best to keep the pastels, just in case.

About twenty years ago, while going through a pile of boxes in an upstate antique store, I came across a beat-up, dark brown wooden dovetail box, 14 by 17 inches, full of dry pastels. I knew immediately that they were old, probably late 19th century.  Strips of yellowish cotton, stained with pigment, protected the sticks. “Made in Dresden,” implied a European excellence and exoticism. My first thought was that the pastels were made from the very same pigments that the Impressionists and Degas used, some of which may no longer be available. Just being in possession of this ancient artifact made me feel linked to the past, and like an authentic artist.

I knew I wanted them, but did I actually need them? I had no plans to ever use pastels again. Would they just accumulate dust and take up valuable space? “O reason not the need,” cried King Lear. Why must “need” enter into a decision? Why shouldn’t I want something even if it is not needed? Do it! Seize the opportunity. If you don’t, you will regret it later. The chance may never come again.   

Without examining the heavy box or its contents further, I quickly and carefully carried it with two hands to the counter, giving myself no chance to reconsider.

Recently, while going through a cabinet full of supplies, looking for a stash of tubes of gouache, I discovered the box of pastels. They weren’t exactly lost, just ignored. Over the years, I had never actually opened the box or examined what was inside. I simply hoarded it, squirreled it away.

To my great joy and surprise, I found four wooden shelves of 120 pastels each or 480 colors. That is far more colors than I have ever used or might ever need.

Do I really need them? Maybe not. But if I weren’t a hoarder, I wouldn’t own this amazing set of pastels to marvel over and play with. 

So there!

When Is It Time to Quit?

I don’t know how other artists deal with failure. Failure, paradoxically, motivates me to work harder. As a self-taught artist, I am one of those stubborn people who believes that with time, I will find a solution or eventually discover something new and better. Intuitively, I try one thing and another, pushing the process even if I have to destroy all the work that was done before. Reckless, perhaps, but that is my process.

This paradigm has worked well, until I took on Oedipus Rex by Sophocles. For five months, on-and-off, I have been working on an adaptation. It is not my first Greek play. Over the last eight years, I have completed four Greek plays by Aeschylus. Extracting the essence of the story, I went back and forth between the text and the illustrations until they created a synergy. The process wasn’t easy but I had no reason to believe Oedipus would be any more difficult than those earlier plays.

Naivety is one of my strengths. Even though I am susceptible to stress, I often naively take-on difficult projects. I enjoy new challenges. With Oedipus Rex, however, naivety was rash foolishness. I took on this challenge without understanding the inherent difficulties and risks that it entailed.

Risks, you ask? My sleep was interrupted frequently as my mind obsessively poured over possible solutions to the Oedipus creative quandary. When finally morning arrived, I eagerly went to work in my studio trying my new ideas. Day after day, the ideas fell short of my expectations.

The pile of Oedipus-related drawings, collages, and prints kept growing, but I was no closer to what I thought the play required. Even my expectations kept changing. Eventually, the daily toil led me to doubt my own creative abilities.

I was becoming increasingly frustrated until I discovered the source of my difficulties: the structure of the play itself. King Oedipus, while attempting to cleanse Thebes of a deadly plague, gradually learns that he is the cause of the spiritual and moral pollution that grips his kingdom. Ignorant of his deeds but aware of the curse that haunts his life, Oedipus unknowingly has killed his father and married his mother.

The dramatic tension of the play is created by Oedipus’ gradual awareness of his fate. As such, most of the action takes place in Oedipus’ mind, and is reflected in his reactions to the horrible revelations he learns about himself. Surprise, anger, pride, distrust, shame, horror, denial, powerlessness, resignation, love, hate, sadness, hope and fear are some of the feelings Oedipus experiences. These are states of mind. The action, therefore, overwhelmingly consists of descriptive words that reflect these thoughts and feelings.

At first, I tried drawing the few events themselves, like the murder of Oedipus’ father. The drawings told the story, but they did not illuminate the play’s deeper psychological meanings.

Then I tried to interpret the play through a series of related abstractions, forms gradually took on a shape as they moved from darkness to light. Abstractions, I thought, could be used to reflect Oedipus’ realizations. Nothing worked. Nothing successfully reflected Oedipus’ process of self-discovery.

As the days and months went on, I began dreading my time in the studio. I was reminded of the eight months I spent teaching Macbeth, a weekly slog through murder and madness.

Finally, after careful consideration, I decided to stop and desist my Oedipus torture. I safely put away, in the recesses of my bookcase, the many translations and critiques I had collected. My pile of Oedipus Rex drawings went safely into my flat files.

Free at last? Not really. Just not waking up every night or working on Oedipus Rex every day. I am giving my mind a needed rest.

Is this the end of the story? Maybe. While I take a vacation, I hope my mind will, unbeknownst to me, continue mulling over my Oedipus Rex problems. A solution may be around the corner or may never be found, but those are the risks an artist must learn to live with.

Disappointed? Yes. Defeated? No. Ready to quit? Yes— temporarily.

At 76, An Artist Reflects

One is only 75 for a brief year, and then that age is gone. So as I await another New Year, I also await my new age with the joy and sadness that accompanies one-plus-three quarters of a century.

2022 was a productive year. Two shows of my Artist Books brought home to me the depth and breadth of my work in that medium. Sometimes you cannot see the forest for the trees. Solo shows can clarify and broaden  perspectives.

As time goes on, more than ever, making art has become my life. I work in my studio almost every day. When I miss a day, I feel lost. Art infuses my life with a sublime sense of satisfaction and accomplishment, even if it goes unobserved by anyone else.

I have become an increasingly self-sufficient, self-reliant artist. I know what I am doing. My work is my own, my voice, and that knowledge buttresses my efforts.

At 76 I enjoy shedding old patterns, and reinventing the way I do things. Each new work is a new  beginning even when it is related to an earlier work. I have grown accustomed to difficulties. Instead, I enjoy challenges. I am patient with myself. I have learned to wait, to let the process play out, to let the picture emerge. I don’t despair.

Besides the work, there is friendship. With age, I have grown more appreciative of my friends. They are my anchors. Our shared pasts give me perspective, past and present. If I need help with something that neither I nor Edwina can do, they are there for us, as I am for them. It is comforting to know one is not alone.

And as my age increases, I am happy to be healthy and well. So many others are fighting illnesses, and mortality is always not far from my mind. I am thinking about the way I want to be remembered, the good I hope to leave when I  depart this world.

After fifteen years of retirement, I finally have stopped setting my alarm clock. Life is just a brief moment between eternities.

TAKING DOWN MY SHOW

Generally, I am not sentimental about my shows. They go up and  come down as scheduled. At the appointed time, I pack-up the artwork and put it away until the next show or forever.

This isn’t how I feel today, a day after I took down my solo show “Imagining the Artist Book,” at the White Plains Public Library.  The exhibition encompassed 12 years of Artist Books. 

Today, I feel like I have lost a friend. The show was itself the most lovely I have ever mounted (or may ever mount) with 13 framed or cradled books presented in horizontal and vertical display cases, and a representative selection of 35 of my favorite etchings, drypoints and monoprints beautifully lit and displayed on textured fabric wall panels.

The show in its entirety was more impressive than the sum of the individual images and books. It reflected my thinking. It reflected my style. It was Marc Shanker, the artist. At the same time, the show felt like an organism which is intimately related to me but living independently from me. Like a twin brother who moves away to start a new life in another town but still lives close by. 

As the pictures were removed from the walls and the books put in their boxes, I felt as if I was dismantling a living thing, leg by leg and arm by arm, until it was entirely in pieces. Looking back at the empty gallery, I sensed that a physical and mental presence had been removed, like an empty studio after an artist has died. All that remained were the memories. 

COVID couldn’t dampen my feeling of accomplishment but it did  reduce the number of visitors. The work is now safely stored away in flat files awaiting a rebirth.

Tomorrow, it is back to work! 

Why am I still painting Still Lifes?

Still Life with Black-eyed Susan. Acrylic on Canvas. 40” x 30". 2021.

I didn’t expect to be painting still lives this summer. I had plenty of ideas for other subjects, motifs that reflected my thoughts about mortality, purpose and time. So how did I get involved painting still lives?

Paintings have a way of being born without my permission or knowledge. They happen as I work and watch them evolve. So when a still live emerged out of another painting, I just thought it was a moment on the way to something else. 

But the still life refused to go away. Try arguing with a painting. Since you are fighting yourself, you can’t win. I just went with the flow.

The painting knew how to survive: it made itself really difficult. I love difficulties so I got hooked. I also realized that I hadn’t painted a still life in years. When I first picked up a brush, I painted still lives. The subject matter, oranges, apples, plants and books, were readily available. My favorite artists painted still lives: Cezanne, Soutine, Matisse, Picasso. What better way to apprentice myself?

That was fifty years ago, and in the interim I struggled to define myself, to find the images that gave voice to my thoughts and concerns. I gave up still life painting because I didn’t understand how it could allow me the freedom I was searching for.

That was then. Now I am finding a subtle freedom in painting still lives. I am concentrating on composition, line and color, the fundamentals of drawing and painting. 

In still lives, expression is more indirect. What colors are chosen, what fruits or objects are used, the overall structure of the painting are clues to the artist’s state-of-mind. It is said that there is a universe in a Cezanne apple. If you are an artist, these are good problems to have.

So far, I’ve completed three or four still life paintings. The process isn’t any more harrowing than I fare normally, it’s just unfamiliar. I can never tell when a painting will give me a lot of trouble. You get used to uncertainty. I don’t know how many still lives I will do or where it will take me. I don’t care. 

This is why I call myself an artist.

PAINTING FRUSTRATION

PAINTING FRUSTRATION

Paintings are like people: some you always remember, and others, “ When did I do that?” And like old friends, paintings can remind you of the particular circumstances of their birth, while others continue to challenge you to understand them. 

This doesn’t mean that a painting is “good” or “bad.” The quality of a painting can be confused by its emotional baggage. For example, an artist might treasure a drawing because he/she was infatuated by the model.

“Annual Report.” is a special favorite of mine. It is large, 54 x 48 inches, painted in acrylics with text written with wax crayon. In 1998, I  was still hand-stretching and priming my own canvases. Preparing your own canvas encourages an early intimacy that is absent when a pre-stretched canvas is purchased from a store. 

I went about this painting in an odd way. At the time, I was frustrated by large canvases. I couldn’t finish them. I was unable to fill the space. In disgust, I would destroy the work.

But not this time, alone upstate, I swore that I would not leave my studio, even to eat or sleep, until I finished the painting. I placed the empty canvas on the floor instead of the easel, and grabbed my large brushes. I would not give up!

Thankfully, I was on vacation from my job as Communications Director. The previous week had been insane. Our Annual Report was due. All day long, the CEO screamed at everyone that the Annual Report wasn’t what she wanted, and the clock was ticking. The work was grueling: writing, editing, rewriting, editing again, ad nauseam.

I started the painting without any thought of my 9-to-5 job, but as I put color and line on the canvas, the madness of the last week took over. I gave in and let anger guide my brush. After working straight for 6 1/2 hours, the canvas was completed. The painting had painted itself.

Now I could eat dinner at my normal hour.   

Marc Shanker. “Annual Report.” Acrylic on canvas. 54” x 48.” 1998.

AN ARTIST STATEMENT: SUMMER 2019

AN ARTIST STATEMENT: SUMMER 2019

With the works exhibited in the show Marc Shanker: Summer 2019 Paintings, I wanted to challenge the idea, “the mind craves a logical sequence.” With this intention, I decided to make paintings that had no obvious story. To do so, I needed to subvert my strong disposition to construct a narrative while working. I began the series by looking through hundreds of old drawings, some made twenty or more years ago. I was in search of provocative imagery that made little narrative sense. I took bits and pieces of old drawings and, on the basis of their  compositional qualities, juxtaposed them together to create an expressive composition. In spite of myself, as I painted I began to construct stories that interconnected the disparate images and colors. I made a conscious effort to keep the narrative qualities secondary. I didn’t want to know what the paintings were about. Instead, I concentrated on composition. The colors emerged, receded, and re-emerged. They called their own tune. As I look at the images today, I can, with some effort and imagination, make  some sense of them. But I don’t really know what stories they tell. I realize that the stories I find in the paintings today may not be what I was thinking at the time I painted them. If that information ever consciously existed, it has certainly disappeared, as today’s narrative will also disappear eventually. All that will remain is the painting itself.