tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-205881962024-03-07T02:07:23.670-05:00Artdeal MagazineArtdeal Magazine is a touchstone for artists; what it means to choose a life devoted to art, and how to survive and flourish as such. It provides sanctuary. This blog will do as intended; offer a running commentary, a little reminder, a yes for being an artist!Addison Parkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17761481663107145487noreply@blogger.comBlogger243125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20588196.post-54192652098006806752017-07-27T11:32:00.001-04:002017-09-10T14:39:25.065-04:00IF YOUR DREAM IS TO PAINT<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><center><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo1BWqov6uO1x5rxxOmvY2YMGinuqGrE89M6o0zlQUVC2Qz2cNkRr4wEMoTpDpBYGHGUJk_K0F_f_F-NPpj-N6h5wsXFk5nL5rlA1-cHNY1O7c38pZ3xEytN8ZuR9YgD41U2Mfmw/s288/iphone_photo.jpg'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo1BWqov6uO1x5rxxOmvY2YMGinuqGrE89M6o0zlQUVC2Qz2cNkRr4wEMoTpDpBYGHGUJk_K0F_f_F-NPpj-N6h5wsXFk5nL5rlA1-cHNY1O7c38pZ3xEytN8ZuR9YgD41U2Mfmw/s288/iphone_photo.jpg' border='0' width='280' height='218' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br /><br /><br /><br />Let's find a way to make that dream come true. Making art is a choice. You only need permission from yourself. <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><center><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMxZJzhyuF-onG8kriBcgos9Rx9nHxwFhC8DPJX99-BbT9jDi4jpacc-6UE4IHLWrXIJJxPtzu5Wq2-XW5b06uXl3lBK1rwWW1W8EMrn1r2k9z6pEToIQVFN-rvNoO7BFPl1oe9Q/s288/iphone_photo.jpg'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMxZJzhyuF-onG8kriBcgos9Rx9nHxwFhC8DPJX99-BbT9jDi4jpacc-6UE4IHLWrXIJJxPtzu5Wq2-XW5b06uXl3lBK1rwWW1W8EMrn1r2k9z6pEToIQVFN-rvNoO7BFPl1oe9Q/s288/iphone_photo.jpg' border='0' width='220' height='280' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br /><br /><br />So let's find a way to make this happen. The first step is for you to make contact, make a little move, make a little mess. <br /><br /><br />The most delicious oil paint is pure delight in a tube. Squeeze it out. Touch it. Mush it around. See what happens when you play with its energy. How does it play with other colors? Soon you will find yourself at the water's edge. <br /><br /><br /><i>Anyone can paint. </i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><center><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEfs1V18EscD9Kj4REUDQdDWhGwMTaWMOUImQ_rIsQzOv8t-tJL1-GzlEwzLp75JAWDPX9nlq-RyXkCq3-pXdt_QGD548k0mvSfPULWe00yrmu2XMFn60Pv0CwfaoFoD9Yjizlng/s288/iphone_photo.jpg'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEfs1V18EscD9Kj4REUDQdDWhGwMTaWMOUImQ_rIsQzOv8t-tJL1-GzlEwzLp75JAWDPX9nlq-RyXkCq3-pXdt_QGD548k0mvSfPULWe00yrmu2XMFn60Pv0CwfaoFoD9Yjizlng/s288/iphone_photo.jpg' border='0' width='209' height='280' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br /><br /><br /><br />The ecstasy is to paint exactly from how you think and dream and feel. No shoulds. Worth repeating. NO shoulds. Quite the opposite. Follow your own lead, allow for your own sea of inspirations. A color could get you started, or shape, or an idea. Trust your own sense of what is good and right and best. No rules. <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><center><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRyOWHWgi_p3QAZ5EiOdO8-gihi76jK8rS9sVNBsqU1_Zx9dgewyPMWk-nXzSt8j9mvlPAl-H3trwUd2msOCcyJkWCttQRbxWrrM-GmTvbxZj9PlFqlSrO3MtJDSO1M_666Va36g/s288/iphone_photo.jpg'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRyOWHWgi_p3QAZ5EiOdO8-gihi76jK8rS9sVNBsqU1_Zx9dgewyPMWk-nXzSt8j9mvlPAl-H3trwUd2msOCcyJkWCttQRbxWrrM-GmTvbxZj9PlFqlSrO3MtJDSO1M_666Va36g/s288/iphone_photo.jpg' border='0' width='280' height='216' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The sad fact is that a lot of people think they know what art is and what it isn't. They want to decide for the rest of us. This is the folly of the closed mind. Give them a nice hug and a warm laugh.<br /><br /><i>Just do it.</i><br /><br />We can get you started. Help you get materials and get you having fun. Then you can just paint away! You can paint just like you. Find the painting inside you. Abstract, figurative, makes no difference. Please yourself. We count on the selfish courage of artists. <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><center><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0OdbRLULEZ0ffjhEfsn4rtXkuu5T9Ye_VLqOGGJD1SJD6eO8pkuXsPHCidOnQbkAE2n089Aj5YvuZpSbcCEmC4SBlPVcM7PIArAlo4izta4bpScQmKcW6qak_jH2ECNmHxlPkcQ/s288/iphone_photo.jpg'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0OdbRLULEZ0ffjhEfsn4rtXkuu5T9Ye_VLqOGGJD1SJD6eO8pkuXsPHCidOnQbkAE2n089Aj5YvuZpSbcCEmC4SBlPVcM7PIArAlo4izta4bpScQmKcW6qak_jH2ECNmHxlPkcQ/s288/iphone_photo.jpg' border='0' width='210' height='280' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Again. There is no wrong way to paint. Just your way. Gently sit your critical voice down and put your finger to your lips and quietly say shush. Then trust every impulse you have and keep going. Be free. Let color and shape be your chariot! Let line show you the way. Don't be afraid to put things on top of each other. Be brave:)<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><center><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRhPL5tC1crvEiKELqm9mrAYzkiOlGK1UhRdU5fXSqHtB0FxszjoaD2ubOu44W8B2pcte6Yyjh8y_GlYA_YQbRre5hnhhOVUd5GppUHuPVXWYYpO3IfW6bfGuHr8mpy4YFyPSVdw/s288/iphone_photo.jpg'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRhPL5tC1crvEiKELqm9mrAYzkiOlGK1UhRdU5fXSqHtB0FxszjoaD2ubOu44W8B2pcte6Yyjh8y_GlYA_YQbRre5hnhhOVUd5GppUHuPVXWYYpO3IfW6bfGuHr8mpy4YFyPSVdw/s288/iphone_photo.jpg' border='0' width='219' height='280' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Think of your paintings like sketches. They could be a beautiful springboard. Never be afraid of weird. En JOY!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><center><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-N6cD-KoKtTT5Rp_0bbD6LjekzAcjyyGk8QQTO0A-kjOrUY4WCT-iLXMd1LUT5XR7nBTtbj5GMyhIC898vz9Xi6iYLK-js9xt1LZHM1woZFLSqgd2keCIFlcanu7WGShuyG-jsg/s288/iphone_photo.jpg'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-N6cD-KoKtTT5Rp_0bbD6LjekzAcjyyGk8QQTO0A-kjOrUY4WCT-iLXMd1LUT5XR7nBTtbj5GMyhIC898vz9Xi6iYLK-js9xt1LZHM1woZFLSqgd2keCIFlcanu7WGShuyG-jsg/s288/iphone_photo.jpg' border='0' width='224' height='280' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Always remember why and what you like about painting. Permit yourself that. Paint what is inside you. Share what is inside you. Celebrate what is inside you! And then fly. Use whatever you need to help you fly. Like your fingers! Or a stick, or a piece of cardboard. Or not. But there, I have said too much!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><center><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMLZ9nhgfvXSF0cEGoNeYz5MRWF-jVGV37gHahfvbxn12fn-W6cBXTbhcEnC-pFzpYDgOAAP3c116HyFeMmO4k0ld8vjbsvTk34dm3bQDdgCal6pGDSuYgjFQIwtVS20Vas6v1sQ/s288/iphone_photo.jpg'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMLZ9nhgfvXSF0cEGoNeYz5MRWF-jVGV37gHahfvbxn12fn-W6cBXTbhcEnC-pFzpYDgOAAP3c116HyFeMmO4k0ld8vjbsvTk34dm3bQDdgCal6pGDSuYgjFQIwtVS20Vas6v1sQ/s288/iphone_photo.jpg' border='0' width='280' height='219' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><center><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjflv6NAaqViwZdqWPLtCtEP7V9k7SwL7eNJFNdBj7M3MFShH34ineK2KvvBnVGBND30Sa4fmJBglQXmVYXRJ6OSvhIeQIQfUWeMbP3WvJacbNf2KWAyUalI_l5SvvQd-RbUrhhkA/s288/iphone_photo.jpg'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjflv6NAaqViwZdqWPLtCtEP7V9k7SwL7eNJFNdBj7M3MFShH34ineK2KvvBnVGBND30Sa4fmJBglQXmVYXRJ6OSvhIeQIQfUWeMbP3WvJacbNf2KWAyUalI_l5SvvQd-RbUrhhkA/s288/iphone_photo.jpg' border='0' width='280' height='221' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br /><br /><br /><br />No expectations. Again. No shoulds. Only wonder and joy. I promise you: this is possible. Let the painting lead the charge. Listen to the painting. It will guide you. I always look at my old paintings and say, ah, so that was what was going on:)<br /><br />Happy Painting:)<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><center><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgbDDRigAfeBtKjm_et9WDitd2-gipekulZffNj_1R71HmYieGL8z8hak-9MlSlX1ImTiyDZrVVc0oezOUClj0Vw_UZmOngGmLuYS8EHThw-NO3yu6L-kH-Wm-xEXBY4HqG4i7qw/s288/iphone_photo.jpg'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgbDDRigAfeBtKjm_et9WDitd2-gipekulZffNj_1R71HmYieGL8z8hak-9MlSlX1ImTiyDZrVVc0oezOUClj0Vw_UZmOngGmLuYS8EHThw-NO3yu6L-kH-Wm-xEXBY4HqG4i7qw/s288/iphone_photo.jpg' border='0' width='277' height='280' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Addison Parks<br />Spring Hill<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Addison Parkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17761481663107145487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20588196.post-51606829228065881442017-07-05T19:03:00.001-04:002017-07-11T10:09:39.608-04:00Wonderful Scraps of Paper<br /><br /><br /><center><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlJNpZPYhIjOcNnWXyrFem7Ogm5PTinGYHIym3g35mT4x3Av_ruedA6VJHgh_c3_J1NyJiqXK9oe77yxrrzBFIaFE7hcgHzuWbfZQJskWKrGevB8v_FjlOS-hmJqztlaLF-lDGZA/s288/iphone_photo.jpg'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlJNpZPYhIjOcNnWXyrFem7Ogm5PTinGYHIym3g35mT4x3Av_ruedA6VJHgh_c3_J1NyJiqXK9oe77yxrrzBFIaFE7hcgHzuWbfZQJskWKrGevB8v_FjlOS-hmJqztlaLF-lDGZA/s288/iphone_photo.jpg' border='0' width='131' height='280' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br /><br /><br /><br />If you're like me, then you're a sucker for the artist's sketch. It might be just a scrap of paper, a scribble, something short hand, something percolating, something being worked out, something barely conscious, something intuitive, something seen out of the corner the eye; an impression, a gesture, a vision, a reach. But to some of us it is something special. Something magic. Art nectar. An epiphany straight from the ether. A tip of an iceberg. A glimpse into the sublime, the divine, the unfathomable.<br /><br />It is what happens when the artist's fingertips, holding pencil, charcoal, pen, crayon or brush, meet the receptive light of paper. When the visual intelligence, emotion, and imagination of the artist coalesces, fuses, swirls into existence from a confluence of forces from muse and nature and experience and the unconscious, from eyes and brain and heart and will, and then travels down arm to hand to fire like explosions off the tips of fingers onto the open expanse of pristine and beautiful smooth or textured paper. <br /><br />Things happen on paper with the lightning speed and unfathomable depths of inspiration. Which is why I prize any scribble by any artist above the finest print by that same artist any day of the week. A scribble is unique, and it is awash in touch.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><center><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigfDVoIM_Z8c_SQe-z-aunasa2alqY4aqROjzm4iE9e_fjuIHVYMFE3Scg1dVrIbsR2HICHSHGYbHUy3JMejoSaoUt1Awt8wsiCEttw0g3YRT9qZBa64oIxrPJ5a2IPsVTg2-xXg/s288/iphone_photo.jpg'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigfDVoIM_Z8c_SQe-z-aunasa2alqY4aqROjzm4iE9e_fjuIHVYMFE3Scg1dVrIbsR2HICHSHGYbHUy3JMejoSaoUt1Awt8wsiCEttw0g3YRT9qZBa64oIxrPJ5a2IPsVTg2-xXg/s288/iphone_photo.jpg' border='0' width='197' height='280' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br /><br /><br /><br />Artists like Leonardo da Vinci, Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, Frida Kahlo, Willem de Kooning, and Jean Michel Basquiat made miracles of a scrap of paper. And then of course there was Picasso, perhaps the artist most famous for turning a paper napkin into a fine meal. <br /><br />The things that happen on a scrap of paper are where they happen first, and sometimes never again. This is what makes the sketch so special. The flower of the imagination finds its way onto paper first. This explains why so many true connoisseurs covet the artist's drawing above all else. It may also explain why so many artists eschew working from drawings and go straight to the medium of the final destination, paint, canvas, metal, stone, found materials, installation space, etc. to make sure that what got them there, the inspiration, the impulse, the unconscious force of creation, is all there, and that none of that gets left behind.<br /><br />My friend, the rare book dealer, John Wronoski, has always had such wonderful things on paper that I could never restrain myself. Everything from sketches and watercolors to manuscripts and letters and ephemera. My artist friend Martin Mugar and I could never quite believe what we were holding in our hands as we perused his treasures on visits to his shop tucked on a back street in Cambridge, a stone's throw from the Fogg Museum and Widener and Houghton libraries at Harvard. A handwritten Kazantzakis manuscript. A Garcia Lorca drawing. Magic trapped in paper like amber. The artist's touch.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><center><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz34ckMmmTNVubjjwXT6Vfu60iLN9xv6GISv2wstoTFxlHnlETUWaJUK6UAVrrhj1e1d8wagT448GgAH0Dj7Bi-tHbUDpmpYq7v0i3fq5Qq0UFCb1JWQnAvjnLTL2XskyfOeXX0A/s288/iphone_photo.jpg'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz34ckMmmTNVubjjwXT6Vfu60iLN9xv6GISv2wstoTFxlHnlETUWaJUK6UAVrrhj1e1d8wagT448GgAH0Dj7Bi-tHbUDpmpYq7v0i3fq5Qq0UFCb1JWQnAvjnLTL2XskyfOeXX0A/s288/iphone_photo.jpg' border='0' width='280' height='199' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br /><br /><br /><br />That is it, isn't it? The artist's touch. The artist's hand. There are those who believe that it is all in the touch. I am one of them. We can't help it. Touch matters.<br /><br />About ten years ago I discovered that I could find works of art at auction on line. I started by searching for a Matisse tapestry that had been in my family and had gone lost. I had enjoyed live art auctions already, but the prospect of being able to participate in an auction in Paris, or London, or New York without leaving my home, and then tracking down and finding works by artists that I cherished, that was a huge thrill. <br /><br />It goes without saying that one has to be on one's toes. That fraud and art go hand in hand. Growing up on Via Margutta in Rome I watched in awe and wonder everyday as gifted artists sculpted and painted, and made something where there was previously nothing. I also watched with almost equal admiration as very skilled craftsmen on the same street created fake objects of art and antiquity for the tourists and unsuspecting collectors. <br /><br />Years later I also followed my art history professor and mentor, James Kettlewell, around some of this country's finest museums as he explained how to spot a fake Rembrandt. Apparently they were everywhere, and there were lots of them. It was almost funny. A game of amusement. Sport. Spot the fakes. <br /><br />After what transpired at the venerable and most reputable Knoedler Gallery in New York over the past few years, where major works of art by modern masters were sold to big collectors and then exposed as forgeries, the art world will never be the same. Everyone becomes suspicious when that kind of fraud takes place at the top of the art world, and for good reason. If you can't trust them, who can you trust?<br /><br />It is said that Frida Kahlo produced far more work after her death than she ever did when she was alive. Two or three times more. It is also said that Stalin had factories cranking out forged works of Russian modernist art, and that almost nothing we see these days in exhibits and museums is authentic. I also heard it said that it was the ravenous hoards of collectors from the great state of Texas who put so many forgers to work, creating a huge market for knock-offs from the Dutch Masters to the Impressionists.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><center><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQTAyCqsLHUI37PqebdoDrh6FmGdUo0wHsTPgl3-_VI_oDoGCh-afjolUkAd6SdFyqFl2dhUMytPKhnMTWTLGrzSHS-m1kNz1dQzozlz54V2WpLFA0Jw64lAYA-ujWJtJLAt9fdw/s288/iphone_photo.jpg'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQTAyCqsLHUI37PqebdoDrh6FmGdUo0wHsTPgl3-_VI_oDoGCh-afjolUkAd6SdFyqFl2dhUMytPKhnMTWTLGrzSHS-m1kNz1dQzozlz54V2WpLFA0Jw64lAYA-ujWJtJLAt9fdw/s288/iphone_photo.jpg' border='0' width='198' height='280' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br /><br /><br />Which brings me again to one of my favorite opportunities to own a scrap of paper brought to life by the artist's touch. Art auctioning on line. It is fascinating, exhilarating, and fun. There have always been lots of wonderful small auction houses all over the country that handle estate sales, fine art, furniture, jewelry and collectibles. Now their live auctions can be accessed either through their own website/service, or through a larger "aggregate" service like Live Auctioneers, Bid Square, or Invaluable. <br /><br />These auction houses come in all sizes, with varying reputations, from barns to posh establishments, and some are family owned and have been around for generations. You can make bids on your computer, a tablet, or even on your phone while you are out and about, at work, or having lunch. <br /><br />Some auctions use live video streaming so that you can see what is actually happening and feel like you are in the room. This heightens the level of anticipation and excitement because bids come from individuals either on the floor, the telephone, or the internet, and you get to see and hear all of that, including your own bid. <br /><br />You are guided as always by the auctioneer, who lets you know everything from the lot number and lot at hand, to the amount for the opening bid, the current high bid, and if the current lot is about to close, so hurry, or if it has not met its reserve and is being passed. If you are the high bidder they will let you know. If you win, and that is what they call it to further enhance the experience, that will be confirmed before they move on to the next lot. For your victory you will pay a "hammer" price which goes to the consignor, and a premium, which goes to the house. <br /><br />Some auctioneers can be quite colorful and charming, and will give you a little extra, like a bit of trivia or history or if the piece on the block has generated a lot of interest. They spice it up. Sometimes they even acknowledge regulars in the room and address them by name. They make the occasion special and each one has their own style and way about them. <br /><br />This is a ancient form of purchasing goods that doubles as entertainment; it is an outing; an event; an opportunity to see and be seen; and enjoy the company of old friends while getting something you prize in the bargain, and, hopefully, for a bargain. There are also strictly art auctions, horse and cattle auctions, car auctions, property auctions, and charity auctions, etc. It is another world. There is theater to it. And for about the last twenty years it has been on the internet. <br /><br />And of course the internet is a mixed bag. With an up side and a down side. To many auction enthusiasts it has spoiled both the charm and the opportunity of the experience. Who knows who is who or what on the internet. It makes it that much harder to spot a shill, someone with a hidden agenda just trying to fabricate interest and drive up the price. But it has also created more positive competition and brought in new clients from all over the world.<br /><br /><br />So enter a little auction house called the Preston Hall Gallery, in Dallas, Texas. I really like these people and what they bring to the table. They have a style all there own. <br /><br />Because it is nearly impossible to get something authenticated these days, either because of the daunting expense, or politics, or because artist foundations have simply shut down the process, the Preston Hall Gallery doesn't even bother trying to tell you if a work is authentic, but instead simply lists almost of if it's lots as attributed to, or in the manner of. <br /><br />So unless the work in question is listed in a catalogue raisonne, an exhibition catalog, or has detailed sales receipts from known galleries, collectors, or houses, you are entirely on your own. One common almost comical recommendation is that unless you have a photograph of the artist in front of the work, with you preferably in the photograph, don't buy it, because anything and everything else can be faked. Forgers are clever, thorough, obsessive about every detail from the craft to materials to signatures to provenances, and they are incredibly successful. <br /><br />So you do your homework; you decide if it looks like the real thing, if it rings true, if it passes the smell test; and if you would like it anyway even if it is an innocent copy or a downright forgery. Again, you decide. <br /><br />Strangely enough this aspect of risk brings another level of excitement to the process. How did I do? Did I hit a home run or strike out? Did I just get a gem, or was I fleeced? <br /><br />You may never know. Which is why liking the lot in question is so important. Maybe that will be all you have in the end. The chances are you may just have a scrap of paper that reminds you of an artist you want to have a little piece of in your life.<br /><br />Often the works have a detailed provenance with names, and places, and dates. It might reassure you as to the possible authenticity of said works. How these lots end up at auction in the first place is sometimes anybody's guess. You can always ask the auction house. More often than not they come from estate settlements, descendants quietly unloading unwanted things their parents or uncles or grandparents collected. Sometimes collectors are simply discreetly downsizing, raising cash, or letting go of things which no longer hold their interest. <br /><br />By big auctions house standards the lots at PHG are ridiculously inexpensive. Impossibly inexpensive. But rightly so. They are not listed as genuine, and they are not backed by the reputation of a Christie's or a Sotheby's. The risk is as plain as day. <br /><br />It is also worth noting that quite a few of these "attributed to, and in the manner of" lots sold at PHG and other small auction houses have ended up authenticated, on the block, and sold at those same big auction houses for the kinds of figures that one would expect to pay for drawings and watercolors by artists of such stature. It happens, and it is a matter of public record. <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><center><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmuuCqchnzNZLeoXsUIYB-7uuo0eOUqiU4j4cDiHa3cFlzpgCMYcxw21q7YsNmHeNNq92lWLZXhLmSr9E0wFXoQ-RNpiN7Ty5FEWaZX62TdSmarOsUaY88DH7HfKDnCe82BQdFcg/s288/iphone_photo.jpg'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmuuCqchnzNZLeoXsUIYB-7uuo0eOUqiU4j4cDiHa3cFlzpgCMYcxw21q7YsNmHeNNq92lWLZXhLmSr9E0wFXoQ-RNpiN7Ty5FEWaZX62TdSmarOsUaY88DH7HfKDnCe82BQdFcg/s288/iphone_photo.jpg' border='0' width='179' height='280' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br /><br /><br /><br />But if you are like me. If you are a fool for scribbles by the artists you love. If you like a treasure hunt. If you trust your eye and your nose, and are thrilled by the prospect of having a work by an artist you admire, and could not otherwise afford, then the risk and trade off buying art at small auction houses like PHG is well worth it. Who knows? You just might get lucky!<br /><br />Forgive me, but it is also worth noting that we gamble everyday on a million things. Being in the stock market is a prime example of gambling, although most investors have been led to believe otherwise. My own feeling is why not gamble on something you love that you can see and feel and that enriches your life by its mere presence. <br /><br />The Preston Hall Gallery auctions are generally beyond belief for all the treasures available right before our eyes. Wonderful. Incredible. Too good to be true. That is what makes this process so difficult at times. Scraps of paper by the world's great painters and sculptors, each an artist's artist if not a household name, are mixed in with watches and furniture and coins and books. It is just too hard to believe. Chagall, Warhol, Rothko, Basquiat, Klee, Mitchell, Twombly, Schiele, Picasso, Whistler, and on and on. A veritable who's who. A sheer delight. One has to pinch one's self. Kid in a candy shop. But be careful.<br /><br />Thanks to that mentor of mine, James Kettlewell, I got to spend time at the great American sculptor David Smith's home and studio at Bolton Landing on Lake George in upstate New York. Thanks to Preston Hall Gallery I have two lovely David Smith drawings I get to marvel at every day. <br /><br />When I was in my late 20s I was invited to curate and write a catalog for a three woman show at Bard that included Elaine de Kooning. As a result I was invited to visit with her and her husband, my great idol, out at their Long Island home. Unfortunately due to circumstances I had to decline the opportunity and the visit. Thanks to the Preston Hall Gallery, however, I have a Bill de Kooning drawing dancing as fast as it can any time I look its way. <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><center><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyrpP-JbQi-_MpAb6X9rGkagiDOx3oqGuYVjH_HBY8DrdFV1duI-pmVQk1JzmB1b7N7UPjnIbeIJlV_mQc8KjTq1YVaJtoO2Gmsld1fz9yhyGnYI0X9ey1vrVdKlDCugFi1X_iSA/s288/iphone_photo.jpg'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyrpP-JbQi-_MpAb6X9rGkagiDOx3oqGuYVjH_HBY8DrdFV1duI-pmVQk1JzmB1b7N7UPjnIbeIJlV_mQc8KjTq1YVaJtoO2Gmsld1fz9yhyGnYI0X9ey1vrVdKlDCugFi1X_iSA/s288/iphone_photo.jpg' border='0' width='280' height='184' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br /><br /><br /><br />A long line of Parks grandfathers to great-great-grandfathers and so on are buried not far from Piet Mondrian in the Cypress Hill Cemetery in Brooklyn, New York, and thanks to the Preston Hall Gallery I have two of his small flower drawings. Casting their spell.<br /><br />On that charming street of artists I grew up on in Rome, Via Margutta, my favorite artist to spy on while he worked was Nino Franchina. Nino hung a small painting of mine on his living-room wall along with a blue slashed canvas by Fontana, a futurist painting complete with painted frame by his Futurist master father-in-law, Severini, and a little Calder mobile. Thanks to the Preston Hall Gallery I now have a wonderful Calder drawing from that special time in my life. Just a little scrap of paper with the artist's touch. It means the world to me.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><center><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq73QDRVlNf2BTTX3Gho5FSa3sWl40IGKohLWoTTz81q7yTeqlxfBkTgWObPrTGbsDEuzkBl3CSo-g-L7XENEIOI8lWleSxfBnqsUSD9yXDVhzXoWNs1k6hrzVFzo9hkYZoL9tLA/s288/iphone_photo.jpg'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq73QDRVlNf2BTTX3Gho5FSa3sWl40IGKohLWoTTz81q7yTeqlxfBkTgWObPrTGbsDEuzkBl3CSo-g-L7XENEIOI8lWleSxfBnqsUSD9yXDVhzXoWNs1k6hrzVFzo9hkYZoL9tLA/s288/iphone_photo.jpg' border='0' width='280' height='205' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Addison Parks<br />Spring Hill<br /><br /><br /><br /><a target="_blank" href="http://www.artdealmagazine.com/Artdeal_Magazine/Spirit_of_Paper.html">http://www.artdealmagazine.com/Artdeal_Magazine/Spirit_of_Paper.html</a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Addison Parkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17761481663107145487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20588196.post-81360121265129342352017-05-13T07:24:00.001-04:002017-05-15T11:32:12.033-04:00Artist Notes: Ian Stell<br /><br /><br /><br /><center><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCwkg80bsn_0TTSguENaU_FvNVgbUGH-9K_-Oz4d9RssYrciLRH5RzXsVJUVpvsARwy4pCYerxT0d88bChxvOOoMkQ6zX4ReXfB34dkFI3vJKuOyjWzVsatejm30XxGbMPw2Jwcg/s288/iphone_photo.jpg'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCwkg80bsn_0TTSguENaU_FvNVgbUGH-9K_-Oz4d9RssYrciLRH5RzXsVJUVpvsARwy4pCYerxT0d88bChxvOOoMkQ6zX4ReXfB34dkFI3vJKuOyjWzVsatejm30XxGbMPw2Jwcg/s288/iphone_photo.jpg' border='0' width='193' height='280' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><center><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirHsPKcgv69fjTsSojM2LUeFxeDvnI8yMfAuv9Nj1BIs5pS2GWXfHmaq7jL8SNpRJhU4Mhqn-JYP9TfPt7PRnTuSlkCyI8W2vZuEBQFtFobxnGFgWVslJJsb_vid8I84Qtmt_9Dg/s288/iphone_photo.jpg'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirHsPKcgv69fjTsSojM2LUeFxeDvnI8yMfAuv9Nj1BIs5pS2GWXfHmaq7jL8SNpRJhU4Mhqn-JYP9TfPt7PRnTuSlkCyI8W2vZuEBQFtFobxnGFgWVslJJsb_vid8I84Qtmt_9Dg/s288/iphone_photo.jpg' border='0' width='280' height='186' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><center><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMMpi_D3gF8kDAjp24qMOtIaLclyCD7o-1lO4kSiMvK2J18SVSW09uE2p3ONqsSmsGqdG0U0ccrJpajmDP7DI8uXgQnqreYNpVnrrSvvPqnGBEnSHfdimKbHkciZdJah6fUKOCtw/s288/iphone_photo.jpg'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMMpi_D3gF8kDAjp24qMOtIaLclyCD7o-1lO4kSiMvK2J18SVSW09uE2p3ONqsSmsGqdG0U0ccrJpajmDP7DI8uXgQnqreYNpVnrrSvvPqnGBEnSHfdimKbHkciZdJah6fUKOCtw/s288/iphone_photo.jpg' border='0' width='216' height='280' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><center><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0nV8CIbZgjp8UXFH4Dr9oo-gvZvt07xOBVGwkLkLt2sE4QCOolGRADJheSFog_uiGO6_Av5SXI-12QDy8EatrXONQlJxDIjysAeArGmKr_fvibM0lXnftXG5s-S4ur3a-dRy3dg/s288/iphone_photo.jpg'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0nV8CIbZgjp8UXFH4Dr9oo-gvZvt07xOBVGwkLkLt2sE4QCOolGRADJheSFog_uiGO6_Av5SXI-12QDy8EatrXONQlJxDIjysAeArGmKr_fvibM0lXnftXG5s-S4ur3a-dRy3dg/s288/iphone_photo.jpg' border='0' width='280' height='125' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><center><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjafLfM5K5aDv0Kjg3yQzhWIwe0SrpoioXzDdwnbETCUzI9dkB0f2HIF7POd1iQYNHm19kaK3DTzS36FZ6NB02voHHdjBvxg1Y48QeT1axKlIQY1GKiQBhgF41fHGnvxZCbrPCOHg/s288/iphone_photo.jpg'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjafLfM5K5aDv0Kjg3yQzhWIwe0SrpoioXzDdwnbETCUzI9dkB0f2HIF7POd1iQYNHm19kaK3DTzS36FZ6NB02voHHdjBvxg1Y48QeT1axKlIQY1GKiQBhgF41fHGnvxZCbrPCOHg/s288/iphone_photo.jpg' border='0' width='219' height='280' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><i>Looked at your new work again today Ian. Magnificent work. I am so proud of you. Stupid thing to say and feel, but it is true. I love the way each piece you make is fresh and new and has an identity all its own. So rare. So difficult. Makes me think of Richard Tuttle. Or better, Thomas Jefferson! Inventor. Yes! Thomas Jefferson! The serpentine wall. <br /><br />Plus! I want one!!!! Always telling. But each one is a revelation, like you start from scratch, all over again, tabula rasa, Sisyphus, shape shifting nesting inside of shape shifting! Shape shifting squared! Brilliant! You go back to the drawing board. Break it down. Start over. Fresh eyes. Rethink. It isn't furniture, it isn't sculpture, it isn't anything but instead everything. You look in a new direction. Take out the trash. Turn life on its ear. Ask what if? And you mean it!!! <br /><br />Minimalist persona. Donald Judd. Tony Smith. Ronald Bladen. Agnes Martin. Leon Polk Smith. Even the enigmatic Richard Tuttle. They made art that could "fly." But you are different. Big picture persona with amazing details. Secrets inside of secrets. Unfolding Chinese box intricacy with a Cracker Jack surprise! And then another! You make art that can fly, but actually fly. Actually really fly! Wow!<br /><br /><br />Richard Tuttle, Thomas Jefferson and then, yes, Leonardo da Vinci! And Ian Stell! Wow! Nice friends you have!</i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><center><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb3EAuN_PYxHGLRIXvhsoYBqEd_5eajCjKE4lZHbu9JACl0B67GA70uLMl8IsOMupVYwktl2ovMiKVMA8vYvjFSf2PE2qJO6F3pjF3NbKXAudeB5fg6e_ipilPeyFINfxDhrE3vQ/s288/iphone_photo.jpg'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb3EAuN_PYxHGLRIXvhsoYBqEd_5eajCjKE4lZHbu9JACl0B67GA70uLMl8IsOMupVYwktl2ovMiKVMA8vYvjFSf2PE2qJO6F3pjF3NbKXAudeB5fg6e_ipilPeyFINfxDhrE3vQ/s288/iphone_photo.jpg' border='0' width='186' height='280' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><center><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5-vs_hjTSub2kD2WRyqnpyjHP5bl4cfoC3ma1jSrIMs3hCgnuFf0jDpaeajFSoQ2c_GQSDcXfUOtm_KyKda-W17epqIZ5vr7cXkSHP4ozKRNFaHyAt4SYiUvTLe4aBhk1sBQASw/s288/iphone_photo.jpg'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5-vs_hjTSub2kD2WRyqnpyjHP5bl4cfoC3ma1jSrIMs3hCgnuFf0jDpaeajFSoQ2c_GQSDcXfUOtm_KyKda-W17epqIZ5vr7cXkSHP4ozKRNFaHyAt4SYiUvTLe4aBhk1sBQASw/s288/iphone_photo.jpg' border='0' width='670' height='670' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Hi Addison,<br /><br />I asked Heather for your email. We just happened to reestablish contact in the past few months, and yesterday she told me that you were not well. I’m really sorry to hear this, and I’m also sorry that I’ve waited all of this time to reach out to you. I’ve never told you how important were in my young life, how much I admired you and your work, and how much of a role you played in my becoming an artist. Yesterday I wrote the following little reminiscence to Heather, about that year when our paths crossed:<br /><br /><br />1983, John Hughes meets Charles Dickens. It straddled my sophomore and junior years, and contained both the pinnacle and the nadir of my adolescence. Over that winter and into the spring, I began to emerge both socially and creatively, in many ways for the first time in my life. I clearly remember coming into my own, and distancing myself from a lot of the stifling energy of my family. Addison was a powerful mentor figure, and his encouragement helped make me feel stronger than I’d ever felt before. However as fate would have it, this blossoming was cut short. Over spring break, my parents announced they were getting divorced, thrusting all of their turmoil back into the narrative. The dreamlike Déjeuner sur l’herbe/painting outings with Addison and you ended, and I went back to NYC, into the stew of familial mess. Soon after returning to Putney in the fall, Two of my closest friends — Lakshman and Geoff — were expelled for throwing a keg party (I was equally guilty, but somehow miraculously didn’t get caught), and within a month or two, Geoff killed himself. <br /><br />It was an intense year, and I remember it vividly. It exactly wasn’t rational, but I felt pretty abandoned that fall. My grades plummeted. What at first was an awakening, felt like a false start, by the time the leaves began to turn. Addison Reached out once or twice, but I never responded. I think my shell closed back up, and it wouldn’t begin to open again until long after I left Putney.<br /><br /><br />No, I didn’t stick to painting, although I tried! I had some facility, which was greatly encouraged first by you and then by others through my undergrad years at art school. It’s been a circuitous path, but I’m grateful to have found a creative practice that fits. (If you’re curious, you can find some of what I do on my website).<br /><br />I hope that this isn’t too awkward to receive after so many years. I just feel the need to tell you how much you touched my life — that I still hear your encouragement in my mind and heart.<br /><br />Much love,<br />Ian<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><center><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipD9NjRM5BzJ7osjIMpCrSXyalAOfkJa8-ROPIbuPB8M9V5UKxcGF_Pttd9d8DdMgDs3TqHdeHbhY_h8vYE03Usgx-pVagoq0yJhheXC0769hXB1rBy2CzK-__CCufIcOxV8-rzg/s288/iphone_photo.jpg'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipD9NjRM5BzJ7osjIMpCrSXyalAOfkJa8-ROPIbuPB8M9V5UKxcGF_Pttd9d8DdMgDs3TqHdeHbhY_h8vYE03Usgx-pVagoq0yJhheXC0769hXB1rBy2CzK-__CCufIcOxV8-rzg/s288/iphone_photo.jpg' border='0' width='280' height='168' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><center><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDER0qI-XcwbPI1rU9OyBNCmvzPuxJkucXwzquSrSHb6r_1V7oMegE-yAQfszvQ-RNAtW-CcOzoGZcYuhngn0TaTNczwTeNa6X9XRRtkKqFH69XNV5QlQSVdtd_gYO8DmoShfhRQ/s288/iphone_photo.jpg'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDER0qI-XcwbPI1rU9OyBNCmvzPuxJkucXwzquSrSHb6r_1V7oMegE-yAQfszvQ-RNAtW-CcOzoGZcYuhngn0TaTNczwTeNa6X9XRRtkKqFH69XNV5QlQSVdtd_gYO8DmoShfhRQ/s288/iphone_photo.jpg' border='0' width='280' height='258' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><center><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV6Tp7er_S5MNwZTptaLZgOQO3bYkrdV-bjOpbI_yyJJ4U-YTkJQtv04Id9upPdXX9K6_GtT6lJjgcsqOhSYGBFzElwT0Wb0AR3osNBjzCtuVUzTBX1Ax-Xs1E-rfUMRC5-0HwMA/s288/iphone_photo.jpg'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV6Tp7er_S5MNwZTptaLZgOQO3bYkrdV-bjOpbI_yyJJ4U-YTkJQtv04Id9upPdXX9K6_GtT6lJjgcsqOhSYGBFzElwT0Wb0AR3osNBjzCtuVUzTBX1Ax-Xs1E-rfUMRC5-0HwMA/s288/iphone_photo.jpg' border='0' width='280' height='171' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Addison Parks<br />Spring Hill<br /><br /><br />Ian Stell<br /><a target="_blank" href="http://www.ianstell.com">http://www.ianstell.com</a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Addison Parkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17761481663107145487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20588196.post-67217692034088650952017-05-10T08:12:00.001-04:002017-05-10T08:12:57.093-04:00Artist Notes: James Balla<br /><br /><center><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicVrSHho5sfs3z8f-180BvDXthmAoS2OcujnpmVM9fXYiaJ2UNAVniQx9urkAcNYWdRBPbZluAuH6ITE3TGfTd5sPOBe_EFI01qxp1K2vV42tPoVVvu6MrZWqzEl6T9Jar_4AGNg/s288/iphone_photo.jpg'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicVrSHho5sfs3z8f-180BvDXthmAoS2OcujnpmVM9fXYiaJ2UNAVniQx9urkAcNYWdRBPbZluAuH6ITE3TGfTd5sPOBe_EFI01qxp1K2vV42tPoVVvu6MrZWqzEl6T9Jar_4AGNg/s288/iphone_photo.jpg' border='0' width='200' height='201' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br /><br /><br />I am sooo sorry I missed the boat writing about your work. I get that. You wanted me to write about the only thing that mattered, your spiritual quest, and forget the other stuff. I was not paying attention. I lost faith in anyone wanting to hear that stuff from me. Didn't want to take you down with me, so to speak. Tried to stay above that. To spare you.<br /><br /><br /><br /><center><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhVumZxiU_qLBhit432P_RHWV1orxwPCxTJWDOsqEjz3ujR_mTcn8NeDLMowgJCVLuzXcSLEOi6lnLbTZcbPwJzvGtaibkOwYyoF9pALsnoMLeLZ0Orl1ML5qzdRbQVSgOxHU1iQ/s288/iphone_photo.jpg'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhVumZxiU_qLBhit432P_RHWV1orxwPCxTJWDOsqEjz3ujR_mTcn8NeDLMowgJCVLuzXcSLEOi6lnLbTZcbPwJzvGtaibkOwYyoF9pALsnoMLeLZ0Orl1ML5qzdRbQVSgOxHU1iQ/s288/iphone_photo.jpg' border='0' width='464' height='464' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br /><br /><br />But your work is all about the spiritual quest. Your guides are the Frankenthalers, not the Hofmanns, ironically. The egoless space where mind and body and the universe are all connected, indivisible, invisible!<br /><br /><br /><br /><center><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixi59wRUywQHIi8b3CXFFTHwuo0FAm9diyGLKK2YD9K7icHn3QPygENiyYW9fTBjZrDGBMO9zwBfkCys17w1UecbQcUhJduCksTRIeNfiHLFFgzhR1KTblT6-6OeSOd9fujSkTpw/s288/iphone_photo.jpg'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixi59wRUywQHIi8b3CXFFTHwuo0FAm9diyGLKK2YD9K7icHn3QPygENiyYW9fTBjZrDGBMO9zwBfkCys17w1UecbQcUhJduCksTRIeNfiHLFFgzhR1KTblT6-6OeSOd9fujSkTpw/s288/iphone_photo.jpg' border='0' width='280' height='208' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br /><br /><br />Sorry. Would have loved to have written that! Sorry I let you down.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><center><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimhVlKlM2Ac0dxoC-eXPfq8zS23wQqPiaJWzoDulTBLu3RU6ERkbiOjPZKTvwKOhJLBLIjnrbNzn-p4bVkZwtwhiBXQSwaFPOvn8sCU_L6Lor82FCy5hPC3OxF84Gm108r7fTCZA/s288/iphone_photo.jpg'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimhVlKlM2Ac0dxoC-eXPfq8zS23wQqPiaJWzoDulTBLu3RU6ERkbiOjPZKTvwKOhJLBLIjnrbNzn-p4bVkZwtwhiBXQSwaFPOvn8sCU_L6Lor82FCy5hPC3OxF84Gm108r7fTCZA/s288/iphone_photo.jpg' border='0' width='280' height='278' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br /><br /><br />Addison Parks<br />Spring Hill<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><center><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoRiD5WM6Jyb4sO6QGmLk-dPZSpBwHiPwumv2-n6jiUSY5CEPu5e4bHCGjv0RBoCtiaAihJtXxPTBFB3zQeTtHX4blV72x-fiWyTAC2RSf1ZBEDHK118M1lMTWFZVtDEE-bYl_YA/s288/iphone_photo.jpg'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoRiD5WM6Jyb4sO6QGmLk-dPZSpBwHiPwumv2-n6jiUSY5CEPu5e4bHCGjv0RBoCtiaAihJtXxPTBFB3zQeTtHX4blV72x-fiWyTAC2RSf1ZBEDHK118M1lMTWFZVtDEE-bYl_YA/s288/iphone_photo.jpg' border='0' width='279' height='280' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br /><br />Addison Parkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17761481663107145487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20588196.post-38698722389318969132017-04-09T13:29:00.000-04:002017-04-10T10:51:57.744-04:00Todd Mckie: Divine Comedy<div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit; font-size: 14px; line-height: inherit; text-align: start;">Don't Look Now, But I Think We Have Company, </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: #fefefe; font-size: 14px; text-align: start;">2015, flashe on canvas, 20x16"</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: #fefefe; font-size: 14px; text-align: start;"><i>courtesy Gallery Naga</i></span></span></td></tr>
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You might say that Todd McKie has the best of both worlds, that he is a wonderful painter who also makes us laugh. That his paintings are modern day frescoes by Giotto, on a mission, infused with the Holy Spirit of comedy. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR8JNu343pph6VvgYQosWpDIXoWu2zjXbr1Cin-uyKOTEj3J0Q2GUpOoMPLZexPYaSgYssuf-OyCKidwELH1Et4PpXzP6aiwVdCD07nalU6bFQlvkyuqPCFPs9fpN4baMsOxyd4Q/s288/iphone_photo.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR8JNu343pph6VvgYQosWpDIXoWu2zjXbr1Cin-uyKOTEj3J0Q2GUpOoMPLZexPYaSgYssuf-OyCKidwELH1Et4PpXzP6aiwVdCD07nalU6bFQlvkyuqPCFPs9fpN4baMsOxyd4Q/s400/iphone_photo.jpg" style="margin: 5px;" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: x-small; text-align: left;">“The Terrible Burden of Beauty” (2007)</span></td></tr>
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And of course this is true. But what is also true is that he carries a double burden because of it, to make something special in paint, and to make it funny. One is hard enough. Two is darn near impossible. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: x-small; text-align: left;">“Please Pass the Sake” (2007), </span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: x-small;">flashe on canvas</span></td></tr>
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In art as in humor, you have to be brave, you have to be willing to be bad to be good. Both can so easily crash and burn. Both take great risks. Both can die a lonely death in complete and utter silence. And yet McKie goes there all day, every day, always has. Which is why his work is so widely beloved. You can't separate the two in him, the art and the humor. The yin and the yang. The Cheech and the Chong. The right half from the left half of the brain. They are like the two pedals that make his bicycle go.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Todd McKie, "Feeling Any Better? 2007</td></tr>
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Not that he is complaining either. Clearly he wouldn't have it any other way. Clearly this is what inspires him, what challenges him, what gets his motor running, what makes him tick, what tickles his funny bone.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 14px;">Todd McKie, </span><em style="color: #222222; font-size: 14px; text-align: start;">Geometry without Fear</em><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 14px;">, 2001</span><br style="color: #222222; font-size: 14px; text-align: start;" /><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 14px;">flashe on canvas, 48" x 36"</span><br style="color: #222222; font-size: 14px; text-align: start;" /><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 14px;">Courtesy of Gallery Naga, Boston</span></span></td></tr>
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There is so much going on in this work. So much that makes these paintings fly. The same is true of the humor. If Todd McKie is Giotto in paint, he is Bill Murray in comedy. His paintings go everywhere: landscape, interior, still life, portrait, surrealism, abstraction, color field, hard edge, action, minimalist, etc, and so do his jokes. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit; font-size: 14px; line-height: inherit; text-align: start;">It's a Bird's World, </span><span style="background-color: #fefefe; font-size: 14px; text-align: start;">2014, flashe on canvas, 16x20"</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: #fefefe; font-size: 14px; text-align: start;"><i style="font-family: inherit;">courtesy Gallery Naga</i></span></span></td></tr>
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Sight gags, one liners, parody, satire, slap stick, biting, witty, wise cracking, clowning, fooling around, sweet, dry, dumb, playful, contagious, unstoppable, incorrigible, he pokes fun at everyone and everything, especially himself. You can hear his paintings snickering. You can hear them crack themselves up. They are still killing themselves after you've left the room and they can't wait for you to get back so they can have another go.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 12px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Redball Express, 1993-- 25.75" x 31.5"</span></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: x-small; text-align: left;">“Truth is Stranger Than Non-Fiction” (2006)</span></td></tr>
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And yet they are beautiful. His goofy, cartoonish, almost stick-figure narratives about life, his life, about love and art, about living on this or some other planet, are beautiful. Giotto beautiful. They are a gift, a pleasure to the eyes, a feast that would make Caligula blush. Gorgeous adventures in color and mark and composition and imagination and invention. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit; font-size: 14px; line-height: inherit; text-align: start;">Me and Hue, Babe, </span><span style="background-color: #fefefe; font-size: 14px; text-align: start;">2010, flashe on canvas, 24x20"</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: #fefefe; font-size: 14px; text-align: start;"><i style="font-family: inherit;">courtesy Gallery Naga</i></span></span></td></tr>
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And the color! How much time do you have? Can you take the afternoon off? No one living or dead makes color talk, no... sing, no... wax pure poetry, like Todd McKie. He is in a league all his own. And it is not just beautiful color; it is daring, delightful, delicious, brilliant, breathtaking, disturbing, subtle, elegant, dangerous, generous, unexpected, unspeakable, undiscovered, beyond the pale, beyond the horizon, sublime, grimy, grim, and divine. Color alone puts McKie in the Hall.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 12px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Happy Arbor Day, 1993-- 27" x 32"</span></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Todd McKie, A Proud Tradition, 36 x 48</span></span></td></tr>
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And the same goes for the humor. But what of it? Does he suffer for it? Is he punished, and not taken seriously as an artist because of it? After all, The Martian won best comedy last year. Some people just don't have a sense of humor, or appreciate its stature or critical place in our lives. The Greeks did. Shakespeare did. I'm just saying.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Todd McKie, "Geometry" 2008, Flashe on paper, 22 x 28 inches</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An Amazing Likeness, 2007, Flashe on paper, 22 x 28 inches</td></tr>
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But oh! To be both! That is indeed a gift. In the worst of times and best of times, we need this. We need this artworld court jester now more than ever. To lighten the king's court. To let the air out of the royal windbag. That is something special! And Todd McKie's paintings are just that! Something special! <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit; line-height: inherit; text-align: start;">Jubilee, </span><span style="background-color: #fefefe; text-align: start;">2015, flashe on canvas, 20 x16"</span></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Flora" 1997, monotype, 23 x 30 1/2 inches</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gallery Naga Installation, 2016</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Todd McKie</td></tr>
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<strong style="background-color: #f7f7f7; font-family: verdana, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><span style="color: #999999;">Todd McKie</span></strong><br />
<span style="color: #999999;"><span style="background-color: #f7f7f7; font-family: "verdana" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">received his BFA in painting from the Rhode Island School of Design. He has works in various public collections across the country, including the MFA Boston, the Microsoft Corporation in Seattle, and the University of Texas, Austin. For more information please visit </span><a href="http://www.gallerynaga.com/artists/mckie/mckie.html" style="background-color: #f7f7f7; font-family: verdana, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;" target="_"new"">Gallery Naga</a> <span style="background-color: #f7f7f7; font-family: "verdana" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">and </span><a href="http://www.toddmckie.com/Artist.asp?ArtistID=13543&Akey=6Q4J6S2G" style="background-color: #f7f7f7; font-family: verdana, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;" target="_"new"">his website</a><span style="background-color: #f7f7f7; font-family: "verdana" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">.</span></span>Addison Parkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17761481663107145487noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20588196.post-26353871853579133582017-04-05T19:05:00.002-04:002017-04-09T21:09:59.283-04:00Rory Parks and Paradise Lost<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Rory Parks Installation, NYC</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Rory Parks is painter as all things. He is at once artist, author, architect, and engineer. He is poet, philosopher, tinkerer, dreamer, and inventor. He is stage director, stage designer, stage setter and stage driver. He is distracted, head in the clouds, and sleeves rolled up, laser focused. He is composer and conductor and orchestra and soloist and more. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="style_1" style="color: #584d4d; font-size: 12px; font-weight: 700; line-height: 17px; text-align: left;">Big Orange Projector (Jukebox)</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #584d4d; font-size: 12px; text-align: left;">, oil on canvas, 89”x21”, 2010</span></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">He has always known when something he was painting felt just right. That, ah yes, that'll do. He has that kind of sensibility. That kind of intelligence. That kind of natural talent, genius and ability. A deep well of emotional awareness and goodness and even music. All of that and more.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">All of that and more go into each one of his paintings. That is what it takes to bring one of his paintings to life. Like beautifully crafted ships or flying machines. Ready to launch themselves out into the world. He has been making paintings like this since he was a very young man, wise and mature and prolific beyond his years. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; font-style: italic;">not titled, Oil on Canvas, 47"x24.5" 2014</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">So that is part of the story. Part of what goes into the paintings of Rory Parks. Part of what goes into these constructions that he envisions and executes with extraordinary deliberation. The paintings, the narratives in and behind the paintings, and the experience of the paintings, come together, integrate, to give us something highly evolved, utterly unique, and wholly original.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; font-style: italic;">not titled, Oil on Canvas, 48.75"x25.5" 2014</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">These are dystopian landscapes the likes of the cave paintings of Lascaux. They tell a Mad Max kind of tale of a civilization hung up on itself, a civilization that lost touch with itself, with the earth, with why we are here. These are beautiful portraits of hubris, of decay, of paradise lost. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioBusGCR6lC3jfhIaQ-jG7rsMK060e3yxYxhxJh7axJO3fQUZwbGW5nhcea7p6rT3Q7XrhsMnVbW6DEVG-_3ua1IIfsSQutF8sFOgrWHrIuOVBHpNRvtzqFg1tnx12trNLVoWOiQ/s288/iphone_photo.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioBusGCR6lC3jfhIaQ-jG7rsMK060e3yxYxhxJh7axJO3fQUZwbGW5nhcea7p6rT3Q7XrhsMnVbW6DEVG-_3ua1IIfsSQutF8sFOgrWHrIuOVBHpNRvtzqFg1tnx12trNLVoWOiQ/s640/iphone_photo.jpg" style="margin: 5px;" width="640" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; font-style: italic;">Organism Tracks (After Flayed Rabbit), Oil on Canvas Assemblage 2014</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">We see buildings and bridges and structures like grand arks, withering in the landscape like ancient ruins, lost cities, something out of Planet of the Apes or Aliens. They are above all, however, living, alive, organic, and as such, organisms. They are at once proud and beautiful and even defiant. They stand tall, but they are falling apart.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #584d4d; font-size: 12px; font-weight: bold; text-align: left;">Blue and White Projector</span><span class="style_2" style="color: #584d4d; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17px; text-align: left;">, oil on canvas, 32”x18”, 2009</span></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #454545; font-family: inherit;">Within the larger play of his various constructs, devices, lenses, and narratives, there is something else going on. It is his language of painting. His texture. His fabric. His thin lines of pigment that build his surfaces. Where unusual color dialogue sneaks in, sets off sparks, and surprises us. A whole wonderful world unto itself. Delicious strips of paint, bumpy coalescing lengths of juicy brush strokes that Van Gogh would make a meal of, that tell a color story Albers would delight in, brush strokes that are knitted together, cemented together, thatched together. This is his signature style. Where paint acts like paint. Where our itch for the sensuality of paint gets scratched. Where we could happily set up camp. Where we can be intimate </span><span style="color: #454545; font-family: inherit;">with the richly layered painting experience. Where we can be intimate with Rory Parks's paintings.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Rory Parks, 2003, oil on canvas</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Parks builds and stretches slightly irregular canvasses that enhance the essential "from the ground up" aesthetic of the work and reinforce the cave painting vibe. Rory Parks as Robinson Crusoe, artist documenting the fall of Western Civilization with his bare hands.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="style_1" style="color: #584d4d; font-size: 12px; font-weight: 700; line-height: 17px; text-align: left;">Blue Projector(Book), </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #584d4d; font-size: 12px; text-align: left;">oil on canvas, 32”x17”, 2009</span></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Interestingly enough some of his inspirations spring directly from just such sources, like St Peters on the island of Bermuda, where the artist has deep family roots. The 1612 church has been rebuilt many times but the interior provided a rich jumping off point thick with history, culture, and the human stain. The body of paintings pulled from that experience tapped into a world trapped in amber. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Rory Parks, <i>Rose Viewfinder De Facto Organism</i>, oil on canvas, 2007</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>(inspired by St Peter's interior, Bermuda)</i></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Parks also peoples his paintings with characters. We are not alone. Strange animated forms stand in for us. Abstract inventions consistent and faithful to the abstract nature and mission of the work. These are paintings, first and foremost. They never forget that. They speak through the language of painting, through form and color, mark and composition. Beautifully. Always.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBiva-ldaa5X0nPBc2UqZ_bpFQxWZbCd_vdanNt5pzjlL3BUrHwk426t5YYpRjAuw0jIygUkvM-zMqcKyc48lfvysv-VFQ0BJBO6UEiyFdgArqfUTcrKS0nJpOD-eBfTjQI6PLJQ/s1600/roryparks2.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="604" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBiva-ldaa5X0nPBc2UqZ_bpFQxWZbCd_vdanNt5pzjlL3BUrHwk426t5YYpRjAuw0jIygUkvM-zMqcKyc48lfvysv-VFQ0BJBO6UEiyFdgArqfUTcrKS0nJpOD-eBfTjQI6PLJQ/s640/roryparks2.png" width="640" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #584d4d; font-size: 12px; font-weight: bold; text-align: left;">Inside the Monastic Volume of the Calendar,</span><span class="style_2" style="color: #584d4d; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17px; text-align: left;"> oil on canvas, 2012</span></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwN7BPTlaq6sLaufO90JpwuecKGIL59eOXA9inzcPIL1G0DomrNWm562CKScag8TILE7J6BJ2kPySAM-8NVfGMd5o8c8Q_-08jsCdXOzxBs5ZGovZVZQga7pzHncQ9Hm4-mULwaA/s1600/roryparks03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwN7BPTlaq6sLaufO90JpwuecKGIL59eOXA9inzcPIL1G0DomrNWm562CKScag8TILE7J6BJ2kPySAM-8NVfGMd5o8c8Q_-08jsCdXOzxBs5ZGovZVZQga7pzHncQ9Hm4-mULwaA/s400/roryparks03.jpg" width="260" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Rory Parks, 2004, oil on canvas</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">There is also this pop culture question imbedded in them. Like the great wall in King Kong, are his brilliant, elaborate, and complex constructions built to keep us out, or something in. This question is unspoken, but it gnaws at us, haunts us, providing just one more motor to a body of work that would seem to generate enough chthonic energy and power, like the cave paintings at Lascaux, to reach across time, to call to us, to wake us from our slumber, to whisper in our ears as we charge, half a league, half a league, half a league onward. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="style" style="color: #584d4d; font-size: 12px; font-weight: 700; line-height: 17px; text-align: left;">Quity’s Double Blue Cross Pageantry</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #584d4d; font-size: 12px; text-align: left;">, 18” x 36”; oil on canvas, 2011</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiguKXYV4r0vdebPHN9X82Y5ZIGXDJv8pwP0G79xaepSv8TwhCZ7PBi7y3TyCvFwMBE-Y7GV999E-EuTMjO_Qv3qejGdFae8sIwGDMiGHrpxfGMYv5hymX8upKO_fa0xFgPhrC5_g/s1600/rory_parks06.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiguKXYV4r0vdebPHN9X82Y5ZIGXDJv8pwP0G79xaepSv8TwhCZ7PBi7y3TyCvFwMBE-Y7GV999E-EuTMjO_Qv3qejGdFae8sIwGDMiGHrpxfGMYv5hymX8upKO_fa0xFgPhrC5_g/s400/rory_parks06.jpg" width="300" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Rory Parks, water base paints on board, 2006</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkRemHDuTzj4E9cq6TJl90ecQXqkKXYjq9VG2YJ-by_4h9_3e6keaCvtrct5D2OsZdZ5djhsgPXgCykADr6ks_eofL3sljtMOcfCxd74LLAD1cGRkYiombClSuRtHvQTbnqHaw9w/s1600/image1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkRemHDuTzj4E9cq6TJl90ecQXqkKXYjq9VG2YJ-by_4h9_3e6keaCvtrct5D2OsZdZ5djhsgPXgCykADr6ks_eofL3sljtMOcfCxd74LLAD1cGRkYiombClSuRtHvQTbnqHaw9w/s400/image1.JPG" width="291" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Stamps and Envelopes</i></b>, 2016 Installation, SAC Visual Arts,<br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Artdeal Magazine</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; font-style: italic;">Hang On To Your Hot Lights (installation 2013),<br /> Oil on Canvas, wooden sculpture/shelving installation 2013</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Rory Parks, oil on board, 2012</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: xx-small;">VAN HANOS AND RORY PARKS @ THE OPENING OF ASTRAL WEEKS, 2013</span></h3>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Rory Parks, 2013, water base on board</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Rory Parks Installation, The Bow Street Gallery, 2016 - 2017</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>This essay accompanies the Rory Parks painting exhibit currently on display at the</i> <a href="http://www.bowstreetgallery.com/bowstreet/now.html" target="_blank">Bow Street Gallery. </a></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Rory Parks Installation, The Bow Street Gallery, 2016 - 2017</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Rory Parks at the <a href="http://www.remahortmann.org/project/rory-parks/" target="_blank">Rema Hort Mann Foundation</a></span><br />
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<a href="http://roryparks.com/"><span style="font-family: inherit;">roryparks.com</span></a>Addison Parkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17761481663107145487noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20588196.post-27460801935841978752017-03-26T18:15:00.001-04:002017-03-27T17:03:14.592-04:00Notes From The Blast Site: Thomas Berding at the Painting Center<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em style="color: #333333; font-family: verdana, tahoma, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;">Lessons In Building</em><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "verdana" , "tahoma" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12px; text-align: left;">, 22″x24″, oil on canvas, 2013</span></td></tr>
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At some point in his career Tom Berding took a detonator to his paintings to find himself again. Must have been around 1999. Call it collage aesthetic or deconstruction, doesn't matter. It worked. He hit a dead end and hit destruct, and boom, he rediscovered the joy of painting. Color, mark, shape, space, sound, texture, music, dialogue, energy, harmony, tension, conflict, balance, etc. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "alegreya"; font-size: 14px;">Thomas Berding, Command Tree, 44 X 48″, Oil on Canvas, 2013</span></td></tr>
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It is as though he followed Philip Guston in reverse. Guston complained in the early 1960s that he hungered for something more solid when he abandoned his gorgeous, Monet-like, diffused 1950s abstractions, and then shocked the art world with his comic book hallucinations. <br />
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Thomas Berding, <i>Physical Plant</i>, 1990, oil on canvas, 59 1/2 x 108 inches</div>
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Thomas Berding blew up his own comic book hallucinations of the late 1980s and early 1990s to unleash something that is hard to put a finger on, literally notes from the blast site, exploded comic book hallucinations in vivid animated technicolor, a delightful and refreshing world that is partying like there is no tomorrow, like 1999, a non-stop parade, a non-stop flight to Rio, a place out of control, where the viewer isn't presented with an end, but a beginning. That is what his paintings are like: come on in, the party has already started, and we're having a blast.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 10pt; font-style: oblique;">Remainder in the Field</span><span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 10pt;">, 2016, oil, acrylic</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 10pt;"> and flashe on canvas, 24” x 24” </span></td></tr>
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Glorious color goes hand in hand with his loosely defined and multi-layered shapes and structures. It is at the heart of this process of making and breaking form and space. It is as though the viewer is being given certain variables, certain options to work with. Possibilities. Ocean blues might be one, here, take these nice ocean blues I've found. Or these tangerine oranges. What do you think? This farm door green speaks to me in a way I never imagined winding through this luscious raspberry sherbet magenta colored fragment/figment sea of my imagination. <br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 10.000000pt; font-style: oblique;">Surplus Mound</span><span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 10.000000pt;">, 2016, oil, acrylic </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 10.000000pt;">and flashe on canvas, 76” x 70” </span></div>
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Now I want you to find your way through this kaleidoscopic playground. Step into my template. My neighborhood. Mister Berding's neighborhood. Watch yourself. Endless fun. Things shift, swing around, heads up, hold onto your hats, this ride takes unexpected twists and turns, but we are going somewhere today, some place special, constructed just for your entertainment, your sense of adventure, your sense of possibilities, your sense of hurrah, of fantastic other worlds, of unseen other places. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "alegreya"; font-size: 14px;">Thomas Berding, 2008, By Land and By Sea, Oil on Canvas, 70 X 76</span></td></tr>
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Or not. Some viewers can also just stand back, take in something that acts like abstract arrangements of color and form, and be perfectly happy. Collage experiences which seem to move when our backs are turned, playful interior and exterior landscapes of brilliant color and light, breezy and revitalizing like a Spring day. Ride or not, Thomas Berding's paintings gift the viewer this one thing. They are the pleasure of painting. The joy of painting. The love of painting. And we are happier and better for them. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em style="color: #333333; font-family: verdana, tahoma, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;">Explosion View</em><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "verdana" , "tahoma" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12px; text-align: left;">, 44″x48″, oil on canvas, 2013</span></td></tr>
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Addison Parks<br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 10.000000pt; font-style: oblique;">Sunrise Sunset Die Cut</span><span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 10.000000pt;">, 2016, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 10.000000pt;">oil, acrylic and flashe on canvas, 70” x 62” </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Multiple Futures, 2017, oil, acrylic,<br />
flashe on canvas, 40" x 36"</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Orienting Devices, 2017, oil, acrylic,<br />
flashe on canvas, 30" x 24"</td></tr>
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<b><a href="http://thepaintingcenter.org/exhibitions/thomas-berding-paintings-surplus-mound" target="_blank">Thomas Berding</a></b><br />
<ins><a href="http://thepaintingcenter.org/exhibitions/thomas-berding-paintings-surplus-mound" target="_blank">PAINTINGS FROM THE SURPLUS MOUND</a></ins><a href="http://thepaintingcenter.org/exhibitions/thomas-berding-paintings-surplus-mound" target="_blank"><br /></a>
<a href="http://thepaintingcenter.org/exhibitions/thomas-berding-paintings-surplus-mound" target="_blank"><br /></a>
<a href="http://thepaintingcenter.org/exhibitions/thomas-berding-paintings-surplus-mound" target="_blank">March 28, 2017 - April 22, 2017</a><br />
<a href="http://thepaintingcenter.org/exhibitions/thomas-berding-paintings-surplus-mound" target="_blank">Opening: Thursday, March 30, 6:00-8:00pm</a><br />
<a href="http://thepaintingcenter.org/exhibitions/thomas-berding-paintings-surplus-mound" target="_blank"><br /></a>
<a href="http://thepaintingcenter.org/exhibitions/thomas-berding-paintings-surplus-mound" target="_blank">THE PAINTING CENTER 547 West 27th Street, Suite 500 New York 10001</a><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">Into the Wild, 2017, oil, acrylic,<br />
flashe on canvas, 30" x 46"</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: 11.000000pt;">Thomas Berding was born in Cincinnati, Ohio and received an MFA from Rhode Island School of
Design. Berding’s paintings have been recognized with awards from the National Endowment for the
Arts, Pollock-Krasner Foundation, and NEA/Mid America Arts Alliance. His work has been the
subject of recent solo exhibitions at the University of Maine Museum of Art, University of Notre
Dame, and in October 2016, Oakland University in metro Detroit mounted a survey of the last decade
of his work which was accompanied by a major catalog. Over his career, Berding has exhibited at many
venues including the David Klein Gallery, Eli and Edythe Broad Art Museum, Nelson-Atkins
Museum, Rochester Institute of Technology, Indiana University, Fort Wayne Museum of Art,
Savannah College of Art and Design, and Rhode Island School of Design Museum among many
others. Thomas Berding currently lives and works in East Lansing where he is Professor of Studio Art
at Michigan State University.
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<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: 11.000000pt;">For more information on the artist see: <a href="http://thomasberding.com/">thomasberding.com</a> or <a href="http://thepaintingcenter.org/">thepaintingcenter.org</a>/exhibitions </span></div>
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Addison Parkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17761481663107145487noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20588196.post-16607002603731960652017-03-22T09:26:00.001-04:002017-03-24T19:48:20.592-04:00Set Free by Nature and Art: The Landscapes and Abstractions of Don Alden<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Don Alden, <i>Winter 3</i>, oil on canvas, 30" x 40"</td></tr>
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Don Alden is looking for peace in his paintings, and he shares this. Serenity, whether in his abstractions or his landscapes. There is no conflict there. One is simply on the inside, the other on the outside. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Don Alden, <i>The River</i>, oil on canvas, 24" x 30"</td></tr>
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One is a place where he looks inward, the other outward. What could make more sense than that? Why wouldn't we all be doing that? Balance. Completion. Indeed, Don Alden's paintings are about being whole. Holistic. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Don Alden, <i>Winter Shadows,</i> oil on canvas, 30" x 40"</td></tr>
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Don Alden is a graphic designer by training and by trade, but in his heart he is a painter. Painting is where he goes to get away, to be himself, to be by himself, to heal, to commune, with nature, with the universe. He can look harder and deeper. He can ask questions and even get answers. He can find sanctuary, he can find light, he can find peace.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Don Alden, <i>Silver Lake</i>, oil on canvas, 24" x 30"</td></tr>
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Landscape painting came naturally to him when he started painting. His home backed up onto conservation fields, as pretty an expanse of nature as you could ever dream of. It spoke to him. It called him. As an athlete he spent so much time running and cycling and training as a guest in this halcyon paradise. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Don Alden, <i>Old Sudbury Farm </i>, oil on canvas, 39" x 40"</td></tr>
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As a visual person, honoring that paradise was a no brainer. It was a simple act of gratitude, adoration, homage. Humility. Humbled by the magnificence of it all. That he could be a part of it. That every day he woke up and it was just there, waiting, alive, full of energy, beauty, power, mystery and majesty. It showed him something new everyday, taught him something new. He got to feel it, love it, and know it.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Don Alden, <i>Red Blue Red</i>, oil on canvas, 20" x 20"</td></tr>
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Abstraction was something else all together. Strange. He didn't know the first thing about it. About its history, its development, its pioneers, its standard bearers, its heroes. He barely knew where to start. Which foot to put forward. A landscape was right in front of you, and if you looked hard enough and long enough, it would guide you. It would show you the way. The rest was up to you. Abstraction had no such road signs. It was all up to him. He was completely in the dark.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Don Alden, <i>Silver Linings</i>, oil on canvas, 16" x 20"</td></tr>
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But over the last twenty years Don Alden has kept at abstraction while painting and selling his landscapes. Those abstractions were a curiosity to his friends and clients. Don's quirky side. His personal side. A strange and curious but forgivable eccentricity. Don Alden is also a business man. His abstractions not only revealed an impractical side, they exposed it. What did they mean? What was he trying to accomplish. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Don Alden, <i>Elevated</i>, oil on canvas, 12" x 20"</td></tr>
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By learning the language of abstraction he discovered its poetry, and who has time for that? In the business world this is nothing but a can of worms better left sealed tightly closed. You start contemplating abstraction, or poetry, and the next thing you know you're out of a job.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Don Alden, <i>Fortitude</i>, oil on canvas, 16" x 20"</td></tr>
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Don Alden is no longer a stranger to the language of abstraction, or its poetry. It is there for him the way the landscape is. A place where he can find energy, beauty, power, mystery and majesty. A place where he can find peace.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Don Alden, <i>Circling Swirl</i>, oil on canvas, 40" x 30"</td></tr>
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<b>Addison Parks<br />Spring Hill</b><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Don Alden, <i>Blue Green Bliss</i>, oil on canvas, 16" x 20"</td></tr>
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<a href="http://donalden.com/" target="_blank">http://donalden.com/</a>Addison Parkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17761481663107145487noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20588196.post-40598298791730271152017-03-21T21:58:00.001-04:002017-03-22T19:28:12.136-04:00Artist Notes: Martin Mugar and That Chthonic Thing<br /><br /><br /><center><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjShYY71KhQHwiK_aa_U148JjOcmhro0TGq23kyFd5VRihpDBCPJ5CVMRTP8V-OrytSZjw1HQ2fgUt8izKNDDsiHf-lrIEIIBDSS-031NPkKQfHWtPI-n9vaulIiv747pXYd_Qi7w/s288/iphone_photo.jpg'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjShYY71KhQHwiK_aa_U148JjOcmhro0TGq23kyFd5VRihpDBCPJ5CVMRTP8V-OrytSZjw1HQ2fgUt8izKNDDsiHf-lrIEIIBDSS-031NPkKQfHWtPI-n9vaulIiv747pXYd_Qi7w/s288/iphone_photo.jpg' border='0' width='350' height='437' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br /><br /><br />Love this painting!<br /><br />Really mesmerizing! That glow about it that Spring has. That chthonic light you love so much. A glow I am desperate to see and feel and bask in, but I got a dose of it from this painting. It also, of course, has a very powerful dynamic emerging in the diagonal patterns, patterns that shift and flip and veer slightly off course creating a kind of vertigo. Dizzying. This is new in the work, and I have to say, a revelation! Remarkable! A real master work! Beautiful painting!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><b>Addison Parks<br />Spring Hill</b><br /><br /><br /><br />Martin Mugar<br />#73<br />2016<br />Oil and wax on canvas<br /><br /><a target="_blank" href="http://www.martinmugar.com/Martin_Mugar/Welcome.html">http://www.martinmugar.com/Martin_Mugar/Welcome.html</a><br /><br /><br />Addison Parkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17761481663107145487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20588196.post-19851396839710566142017-03-18T18:42:00.001-04:002017-03-18T18:45:02.528-04:00Artist Notes: New Paintings by Nina Nielsen<br /><br /><br /><br /><center><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_X3OSmTLrUM23mxwvJySuvMDYdlxKzLu8GX_nXXo0zBuDC5N9XVo_sKML_gtahQVJvLbGOLL257wSCYDKpgaDmaYZPKde3l4Ow3eY-h5CMbORervNh1Ywre0V2AVyvLLLUKJ-5g/s288/iphone_photo.jpg'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_X3OSmTLrUM23mxwvJySuvMDYdlxKzLu8GX_nXXo0zBuDC5N9XVo_sKML_gtahQVJvLbGOLL257wSCYDKpgaDmaYZPKde3l4Ow3eY-h5CMbORervNh1Ywre0V2AVyvLLLUKJ-5g/s288/iphone_photo.jpg' border='0' width='218' height='280' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />2017. Nina Nielsen continues her powerful personal search for the divine, cutting across space and time, traversing centuries and cultures and spiritual history. Her paintings go mano a mano, face to face, with our deepest selves. This is dream painting fusion. This is long, strong vision. This is the diary of a stargazer.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><center><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYhUKKSuI_rNftngox5M49qjVWeWf5EkxAw6hoK0C5MmesusXDJ76BcR2bpu-cvyq_20i7U7L1SvWQONkPZ_dLtq6f9tsLdO-W8SK3vIx2EEl57eTnN2UGXu14RpnFUhJrtcrczw/s288/iphone_photo.jpg'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYhUKKSuI_rNftngox5M49qjVWeWf5EkxAw6hoK0C5MmesusXDJ76BcR2bpu-cvyq_20i7U7L1SvWQONkPZ_dLtq6f9tsLdO-W8SK3vIx2EEl57eTnN2UGXu14RpnFUhJrtcrczw/s288/iphone_photo.jpg' border='0' width='222' height='280' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><center><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmSOXXwfMA4QgwGyN8PWvzgt70wsWHEKmqSOVyolHjLyvYgq9MHW9zYX7F01kJazistz4MVY-pO796B7qenjSzR7LtKwndB4QzGwlrVxNaT34yvH-g1uoW9OT-ghyphenhyphenC-OCZasKguA/s288/iphone_photo.jpg'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmSOXXwfMA4QgwGyN8PWvzgt70wsWHEKmqSOVyolHjLyvYgq9MHW9zYX7F01kJazistz4MVY-pO796B7qenjSzR7LtKwndB4QzGwlrVxNaT34yvH-g1uoW9OT-ghyphenhyphenC-OCZasKguA/s288/iphone_photo.jpg' border='0' width='212' height='280' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Addison Parks<br />Artdeal Magazine<br />Spring Hill<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><center><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjASp-hrSx-ixaDXXiZjxvcHrdZGwGU396YLsPW94RN5R74e0RM75ECkabNKxxxTST_vbZEaZTtRZXpSPoCPxOJV-2VgHRHa9TOJYhe9lhNdQ6H60T4_0THi9RkNOIeu7LSqdqPqA/s288/iphone_photo.jpg'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjASp-hrSx-ixaDXXiZjxvcHrdZGwGU396YLsPW94RN5R74e0RM75ECkabNKxxxTST_vbZEaZTtRZXpSPoCPxOJV-2VgHRHa9TOJYhe9lhNdQ6H60T4_0THi9RkNOIeu7LSqdqPqA/s288/iphone_photo.jpg' border='0' width='208' height='280' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><center><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMvG1-C3UfaZocPTjqBHPyWTOd6IBhvXwKc9_tXEerkOZV1IFnLtHBX7EhhAhIl_6qSAGgRzLyLSnlwt4eIk1OrlhkTu0KDMjzNs4Q9uvK6fVMeWdo7GN1twcfRfIVZkZnykvodQ/s288/iphone_photo.jpg'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMvG1-C3UfaZocPTjqBHPyWTOd6IBhvXwKc9_tXEerkOZV1IFnLtHBX7EhhAhIl_6qSAGgRzLyLSnlwt4eIk1OrlhkTu0KDMjzNs4Q9uvK6fVMeWdo7GN1twcfRfIVZkZnykvodQ/s288/iphone_photo.jpg' border='0' width='280' height='214' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><center><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj15ZjZ6UnbTJTCVBLl9jDLkye9p3XK3T5xN41UN-HPD_67sHXURgsRujlT2OTeUdCauwZNdFug8-vGg1Bhyq7hzRkF6Shw-tGbCtCDDw7VYcWpxUOzFzk18nyHqMxLIqcjHoNvFQ/s288/iphone_photo.jpg'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj15ZjZ6UnbTJTCVBLl9jDLkye9p3XK3T5xN41UN-HPD_67sHXURgsRujlT2OTeUdCauwZNdFug8-vGg1Bhyq7hzRkF6Shw-tGbCtCDDw7VYcWpxUOzFzk18nyHqMxLIqcjHoNvFQ/s288/iphone_photo.jpg' border='0' width='206' height='280' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><center><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9VHYMaSDFxNunC2QUMjuf5cCV7HhoEMbdGvs0s_oKNrwIrRk8TXdJOT0Iq8o0BJa6J4edL7xtfT2Qy-xiM3_Amfm2GzD53oaUZiezB8SmWpHyoTl3uP1k9hmsdWrMHAe-gTimlA/s288/iphone_photo.jpg'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9VHYMaSDFxNunC2QUMjuf5cCV7HhoEMbdGvs0s_oKNrwIrRk8TXdJOT0Iq8o0BJa6J4edL7xtfT2Qy-xiM3_Amfm2GzD53oaUZiezB8SmWpHyoTl3uP1k9hmsdWrMHAe-gTimlA/s288/iphone_photo.jpg' border='0' width='224' height='280' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br /><br /><br /><br />Addison Parkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17761481663107145487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20588196.post-23823166259724166832017-03-18T11:34:00.001-04:002017-03-24T19:58:22.278-04:00Sue Miller: I Know You Rider<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk7X1U_6pgaSIWd-7mg-9vnLnVhe3onGh3gZR6AJIm18dC_2X3k7Sy5GDaKNRa4dQ8AswX2nHqUWdb_MEzp4iC5WF9wQapwTlCAdTV3M3oZCOWZAAUBK4tNmRyq3EwGVFxmeN8oA/s288/iphone_photo.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk7X1U_6pgaSIWd-7mg-9vnLnVhe3onGh3gZR6AJIm18dC_2X3k7Sy5GDaKNRa4dQ8AswX2nHqUWdb_MEzp4iC5WF9wQapwTlCAdTV3M3oZCOWZAAUBK4tNmRyq3EwGVFxmeN8oA/s400/iphone_photo.jpg" style="margin: 5px;" width="395" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white;"><i style="color: #222222; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 11px;">Persephone</i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 11px;">, 2012-2013, Acrylic on Paper, 5 3/4 x 5 3/4"</span></span></td></tr>
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Sue Miller dreams her paintings. I don't know how else to put it. She doesn't so much paint dreams or dream of paintings, as she fuses the experience of dreams and painting together so that they become one. It is impossible to tell where one begins and the other let's off. You could even say that her paintings set dreams in motion, which is more than just saying that they are the stuff of dreams. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white;"><i style="color: #222222; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 11px;">In the Intervening Years</i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 11px;">, 2009-2012, Acrylic on Paper, 7 1/2 x 7 1/2"</span></span></td></tr>
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And yet for the most part they seem very simple. Simple with a myriad of complexities. Simple the way an egg looks simple until you examine the way light and shadow tell its story. Light and shadow tell Sue Miller's story. Light and shadow in a conversation without end. This is the murkiness of dreams. This it the murkiness of Sue Miller's paintings. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0plmnNTqJCPLec_SkGQGmgnqNNRGUNFgkHXVOSGBH9WNkcAG8_gS3F67HYxX-8pRW8tAT7u5MyOou3mAGo5RW3UpabwDv7BzPHACSyFMAHqOvNqDDxKHgCISkHS8NIE_fxsv-BQ/s288/iphone_photo.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0plmnNTqJCPLec_SkGQGmgnqNNRGUNFgkHXVOSGBH9WNkcAG8_gS3F67HYxX-8pRW8tAT7u5MyOou3mAGo5RW3UpabwDv7BzPHACSyFMAHqOvNqDDxKHgCISkHS8NIE_fxsv-BQ/s400/iphone_photo.jpg" style="margin: 5px;" width="388" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white;"><i style="color: #222222; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 11px;">In a Way</i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 11px;">, 2011-2012, Acrylic on Paper, 7 3/4 x 8"</span></span></td></tr>
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If you are in a hurry or distracted or looking for something else, you cannot and will not see them. They require a centered mind. A spiritual mind. A curious mind. If you are in a mood, in the mood, they await you. They take time. They aren't just slow, and not fast, they refuse to share themselves with anyone who needs a quick fix. They have too much respect for themselves.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBJFucxkFM98qBa61rxroudJv4lfXRN2EjGaGR-VNjbY5DlGIj9Q9syNyGiglf60YUwbyllip8mY1ZV2HBVpSSpBPBXU71eP90Jy_Om_majJi4ZmewNitb0LO5qlOEYCCl9ZcaBw/s288/iphone_photo.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="294" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBJFucxkFM98qBa61rxroudJv4lfXRN2EjGaGR-VNjbY5DlGIj9Q9syNyGiglf60YUwbyllip8mY1ZV2HBVpSSpBPBXU71eP90Jy_Om_majJi4ZmewNitb0LO5qlOEYCCl9ZcaBw/s400/iphone_photo.jpg" style="margin: 5px;" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white;"><i style="color: #222222; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 11px;">Landscape for Allan</i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 11px;">, 2007, Acrylic and oil on canvas, 9 x 12"</span></span></td></tr>
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But if you have a feeling for the joys of nuance, if you can linger with an aroma, slow dance in the moonlight, watch a cloud take shape, shift again and again, and then disappear, then this work is for you. If you can muse and marvel and release yourself to timeless, endless space, and you would enjoy paintings that can go that distance and beyond, then this work is for you. If you can imagine watching a rose uncurl itself, and are looking for a coach and rider to deliver you to the land of dreamy dreams, then this work is for you. Bon Voyage.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1x7dn9Qn82fMlhd3IB72CCmuGfds9WnsRoxe_sUFHwDXMOuw2bt_-8rrAPTzNaqwYwDH1U4CDUHvoA555rQucVnH2rSQc3MYPVnDwlIOP-gcP7xvp1pzWeRIf6dO2s-BtwMwK0Q/s288/iphone_photo.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1x7dn9Qn82fMlhd3IB72CCmuGfds9WnsRoxe_sUFHwDXMOuw2bt_-8rrAPTzNaqwYwDH1U4CDUHvoA555rQucVnH2rSQc3MYPVnDwlIOP-gcP7xvp1pzWeRIf6dO2s-BtwMwK0Q/s400/iphone_photo.jpg" style="margin: 5px;" width="397" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white;"><i style="color: #222222; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 11px;">Annie's Days</i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 11px;">, 2000-2001, Acrylic, mixed media on Canvas, 18 x 18"</span></span></td></tr>
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Addison Parks<br />
Spring Hill<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white;"><i style="color: #222222; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 11px;">Pippen's Birches</i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 11px;">, 1998-2014, Acrylic on Canvas, 9 x 12"</span></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white;"><i style="color: #222222; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 11px;">Ararat II</i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 11px;">, 1984-1986, Acrylic on Canvas, 50 x 66"</span></span></td></tr>
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<br />Addison Parkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17761481663107145487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20588196.post-87284984031937157572017-03-16T19:24:00.001-04:002017-03-16T19:24:25.264-04:00Milton Resnick: Baptism by Fire<br /><br /><center><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTxYIIUJffgvRbSIGKob4wTejBxl5sU4CM1Cr1BtPvG2w8p7ryhYpIsksIzmuuIJr2Q1muQIvJX-xDmh-KyvREuMd239pWAq7f8HIb0zDHF-zxuZik69KeA2_FXgchSPrl8ofgbA/s288/iphone_photo.jpg'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTxYIIUJffgvRbSIGKob4wTejBxl5sU4CM1Cr1BtPvG2w8p7ryhYpIsksIzmuuIJr2Q1muQIvJX-xDmh-KyvREuMd239pWAq7f8HIb0zDHF-zxuZik69KeA2_FXgchSPrl8ofgbA/s288/iphone_photo.jpg' border='0' width='350' height='447' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br /><br /><br />What painting would you save from a fire? It just so happens that I have such a painting. A Milton Resnick oil on canvas from 1959. <br /><br />Milton Resnick, the sublime master of abstract expressionism. The painter's painter. The painter's hero. The pioneer who redefined the fabric of space in paint. Primordial. Godhead. The birth of creation. Milton Resnick, the Russian Jew who came to this country as a boy, worked in the WPA, fell in with de Kooning and Pollock and the Tenth Street, Cedar Bar crowd. Milton Resnick, who rose to become synonymous with gravitas, the godfather of the New York School. Milton Resnick, whose vast canvasses brought the viewer face to face with our most basic questions; tremendous, awesome, serene, sometimes frightening paintings that brush stroke by brush stroke touched both being and nothingness.<br /><br />And then, thank goodness, there are these other more frivolous questions, fun questions. What if you were trapped on a deserted island and could have only one book, or one album, or one fruit, or one other person, etc., who or what would you choose? Always a pleasure to ponder. <br /><br />Another perhaps lesser known but also telling query is if there was a fire in your home what would you save if you could save only one thing? Or, by extension, if there was a fire in an exhibition, in a museum, in the Louvre, or the Met, or the Modern, and you could save only one painting, which would it be? <br /><br />The first question is not just about what you like, but more about what could sustain you, what wouldn't bore you after a while, but the second question is more about what you think is the single most important thing that needs to be preserved, maybe forever. <br /><br />Funnily enough I have a painting that answers both questions. <br /><br />Around 1959 we had a fire in our home on Winthrop Rd in Shaker Heights(forgive me if you've heard this story.) I was down the street goofing off with plastic pail and shovel in a sandbox with my best friend Hanky White. When fire engines roared by, sirens blaring, of course we ran after them. When they stopped in front of my house I couldn't have been more thrilled or more proud. There was my home up in flames, clouds of black smoke billowing out of the roof with devilish tongues of flames licking the sky. Men with axes in fire hats and glistening black oil coats marshaled hoses and started shooting water in beautiful arcs. In the thick of all the chaos, standing in the middle of the lawn, in her underwear and a top, stood my mother clutching our Siamese cat, and a painting by Milton Resnick. <br /><br />That's how I remember it anyway, and of course there is much, much more to the story. The point however is clear. Here is a painting that was literally saved from a fire. <br /><br />It is also the painting that has been in my life my whole life, like a mooring. I have looked at it everyday one way or another for over fifty-five years. In passing, in contemplation, in earnest, lost in thought. I have studied it, curated it into shows, hung it in a million places, and even rescued and restored it after it was damaged in the late Seventies. <br /><br />And always it has shown me something different, something new. It is never the same, but seems to change with each passing day. It is as quixotic and enigmatic as Mona Lisa's smile. <br /><br />So yes, it is the one painting that comes to my deserted Island, and yes, it is the painting that gets saved from a fire. Again.<br /><br /><br /><br />Addison Parks<br />Spring Hill<br /><br /><br /><br />Milton Resnick, PENNANT, 1959, oil on canvas, 60 x 48<br />Addison Parkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17761481663107145487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20588196.post-23087040560801948742017-03-11T12:58:00.001-05:002017-03-12T10:39:29.950-04:00NOTHING MORE, NOTHING LESS: Peter Parks, For the Love of Painting<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Peter Parks</span><span style="font-size: x-small;">; </span><i style="font-size: medium;"><u>Yellow 13</u></i><span style="font-size: x-small;">; 60 x 48"; oil on canvas; 2013</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Courtesy Greg Moon Art and the Harwood Museum; </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo credit: Cris Pulos</span><br />
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Art is a calling for the artist Peter Parks. You might call it a spirit thing. The fabric of his work has always been made of this, from his earliest work in Europe as a teenager. It has been a place devoid of ego, held together with an unexpected sweet and sensitive evenness and openness of vision that most people can't see, understand, or frankly take the time to appreciate properly.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Peter Parks, untitled, oil on canvas, 60 x 48", 2011-14</td></tr>
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As a result his wonderful work has gone largely misunderstood. Work that is not only driven by faith, but shaped by it, fed by it, charged by it. Peter Parks has been one of arts unsung disciples for over fifty years; one of the army of individuals the world over who are outside the limelight but that keep the fire burning. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Peter Parks, untitled, oil on canvas, 60x 48", 2011-14</td></tr>
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Because of this the paintings of Peter Parks might surprise you. There is a special sensibility behind his work that has always been there, but is impossible to put a finger on. Something actually quiet and delicate. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Peter Parks, untitled, oil on canvas, 2008</td></tr>
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Which is why he is an artist, and why he makes paintings. If there was some other way to share that sensibility then painting would be unnecessary; furthermore, doing anything else with his paintings but share that sensibility would be a violation of that sacred, profound, and ineffable calling.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Peter Parks, untitled, oil on canvas, 2008</td></tr>
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Peter Parks doesn't talk the talk, he paints the paintings. Talking the talk gets you everywhere in this world, but in the end, it is the paintings which will speak and speak loudly. Peter Parks is a magnificent painter, and time will tell.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "arial";"><span style="font-size: 14px;">Peter Parks, Untitled/ #10 Black and White 2015 </span></span></span><br style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Arial; font-size: 14px; text-align: left;" /><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "arial"; font-size: 14px; text-align: left;">5' x 5' oil on canvas, </span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "arial"; font-size: 14px; text-align: left;">2015</span></span></td></tr>
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Born in New York in 1947, raised in Ohio, educated in Swiss boarding schools with summers on the Greek Islands, and winters in Rome, when it came time to go to college, he served his country in Vietnam. Later it was the San Francisco Art Institute and Mexico and New Mexico. In the late 70s and early 80s he did his time back in New York. After a little time in California and Maine it was back to New Mexico. Back to Taos. Back home. Home to him still. Home to his painter's heart. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "arial"; font-size: 14px; text-align: left;">Peter Parks, Untitled/ #3 Black and White 14</span><br style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Arial; font-size: 14px; text-align: left;" /><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "arial"; font-size: 14px; text-align: left;">6' x 6' oil on canvas, </span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "arial"; font-size: 14px; text-align: left;">2014</span></span></td></tr>
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Peter Parks does not, however, make easy paintings. They are a journey. They are also his music. We have to take those journeys. We have to listen. Paintings rich with feeling and experience, razor sharp thinking and seeing, vibrant touch and imagination and wisdom. They come from somewhere different. Someone different. They require a little courage, a little backbone, a little willingness to travel off road, off the grid, off the beaten path. The results are pure exotic poetry, deep and nuanced, and unfailingly original. That is understood. They are what they are. Nothing more, nothing less.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "arial"; font-size: 14px; text-align: left;">Peter Parks, Untitled/ #2 Black and White 14</span><br style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Arial; font-size: 14px; text-align: left;" /><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "arial"; font-size: 14px; text-align: left;">6' x 4' oil on canvas, </span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "arial"; font-size: 14px; text-align: left;">2014</span></span></td></tr>
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Peter Jackson Parks is a twenty-first century Paul Klee living and painting in Taos, New Mexico. Gifting the world his sensibility, gifting the world his art.<br />
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Artdeal Magazine<br />
Spring Hill, 2017<br />
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<a href="http://peterparkspaintings.com/">Peterparkspaintings.com</a><br />
<br />Addison Parkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17761481663107145487noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20588196.post-17264803028842539402017-03-04T18:06:00.001-05:002017-03-05T10:10:55.129-05:00A Painter with No Country: Portraits by George W Bush<br /><br /><br /><center><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBdloNcesWWeuUh0cfS-leFb6zwtPGpLsDZuVKSw7ueRixO-oqRwvU_JhSNIZouhtyRH3TXIrAAGQ_D9YHTCfpgTR0qfAHxOIcgvZBU40Qu4J84bkXyYVERWIKR5n53rGZ4C2yNA/s288/iphone_photo.jpg'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBdloNcesWWeuUh0cfS-leFb6zwtPGpLsDZuVKSw7ueRixO-oqRwvU_JhSNIZouhtyRH3TXIrAAGQ_D9YHTCfpgTR0qfAHxOIcgvZBU40Qu4J84bkXyYVERWIKR5n53rGZ4C2yNA/s288/iphone_photo.jpg' border='0' width='400' height='141' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br /><br /><br />I saw George W promoting his book of portraits of veterans on Jimmy Kimmel, and even though he works from photographs, which do more than half the work, I have to say that I like them. I like them a lot. They are fresh, lively, free spirited, colorful, imaginative, fluid, even fun, with a certain flair, and a very nice sense of timing and of the whole. He actually has a good eye.<br /><br /><br /><br /><center><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD1n6q6Yk2lZDNbf8tUke9dznsgpzZRcIkTWy7dXVPlcHFNLOiGIDbKotjKGTj9Vm0dg3ku2Bh-DNLwnDs-XrY5rSYck-cKFh_4m_qrqC78j24a6jwT4qv_d1wGj-13OUUouLHlQ/s288/iphone_photo.jpg'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD1n6q6Yk2lZDNbf8tUke9dznsgpzZRcIkTWy7dXVPlcHFNLOiGIDbKotjKGTj9Vm0dg3ku2Bh-DNLwnDs-XrY5rSYck-cKFh_4m_qrqC78j24a6jwT4qv_d1wGj-13OUUouLHlQ/s288/iphone_photo.jpg' border='0' width='217' height='280' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br /><br /><br />I think it is hard for people to admit that. I tried writing about his portraits once before and had to pull it for political reasons. But that is wrong. Frankly as much grief as it will cost me, I like to keep politics out of art. I like to think that most of the time art is, if not above politics, separate. <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><center><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWDfywGwebMchyphenhyphenMirdSqJDd3dAbw0oLFFFWrc7B-8qkzOB8OpJahGBuT59y2zsjfxR6_86nPgtptdVsxxWYs2GKrj8DkcZWfobdvlPA0IeGiXzvdca31kOVrES_ftkjiJhT2j8eg/s288/iphone_photo.jpg'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWDfywGwebMchyphenhyphenMirdSqJDd3dAbw0oLFFFWrc7B-8qkzOB8OpJahGBuT59y2zsjfxR6_86nPgtptdVsxxWYs2GKrj8DkcZWfobdvlPA0IeGiXzvdca31kOVrES_ftkjiJhT2j8eg/s288/iphone_photo.jpg' border='0' width='183' height='280' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br /><br /><br /><br />I didn't vote for W, and although we are very distant cousins on my father's side and his mother's(somewhere I have a picture of the two of them together), I pretty much disagree with everything he stood for as president. But...I like his paintings. Go figure.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><center><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFk5oMtqD1mShT8XIiBTy2gDljrV0g1A2S4Hz2iXgVgGNpm6nU3B8xKIrrja9WRZCcm5pQDsgCOom7w8aY6jZ71tw6m-t1Lqbv9YYXitViMXXwXapNgTb_2zJ0iQkaehX9zp5jOw/s288/iphone_photo.jpg'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFk5oMtqD1mShT8XIiBTy2gDljrV0g1A2S4Hz2iXgVgGNpm6nU3B8xKIrrja9WRZCcm5pQDsgCOom7w8aY6jZ71tw6m-t1Lqbv9YYXitViMXXwXapNgTb_2zJ0iQkaehX9zp5jOw/s288/iphone_photo.jpg' border='0' width='206' height='280' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br /><br /><br /><br />The irony is that his people can't appreciate his paintings, they are not about skill and show little, and my people can't ever forgive him or stomach him or see the paintings with unclouded eyes, so he is kind of a painter without a country. I saw Charlie Rose, who must have less aesthetic sensibility than a doorstop, belittle him about it, and he didn't get any love from Kimmel either. So no love for George and his paintings. Strange karma indeed.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><center><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE5tQk6bc4Sc5W8Orhzh6Zoq03EVQd27rD-pL9ATpMMAEQ6UGUT3FbWdx6FfnEl1A1uBExcQkWxfI1jBv8P4IkjcHUfwz24LCWKoZfDdtAfaO66SRelYIigv2sDguijf3nCS8lYg/s288/iphone_photo.jpg'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE5tQk6bc4Sc5W8Orhzh6Zoq03EVQd27rD-pL9ATpMMAEQ6UGUT3FbWdx6FfnEl1A1uBExcQkWxfI1jBv8P4IkjcHUfwz24LCWKoZfDdtAfaO66SRelYIigv2sDguijf3nCS8lYg/s288/iphone_photo.jpg' border='0' width='206' height='280' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br /><br /><br /><br />Portraits are interesting for all sorts of reasons. For one, they are about real people, and all that comes with that: hope and fear and love and suffering and honor and frailty and strength and dignity and loss and inner light and soul and so on. George's have that. They are less about appearance or verisimilitude. They have personality, and they capture something of their subjects on the fly. They also, and this is the difference maker, act and feel like paintings. So many portraits don't. They act and feel more like doorstops, which I guess explains Charlie Rose.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><center><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_HR_XFfQXqxazW1N3Y36-hfEkYM9JBW3D34PeSSd4bYjE-elT8cjFR3sOj9ESwOAplBnBs93iVGhUNO6WIZ8Lhz8D26GDjHogbbAp3AXn6nHDRN5h1lRNh9xU-5bb5fbLdmSuDg/s288/iphone_photo.jpg'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_HR_XFfQXqxazW1N3Y36-hfEkYM9JBW3D34PeSSd4bYjE-elT8cjFR3sOj9ESwOAplBnBs93iVGhUNO6WIZ8Lhz8D26GDjHogbbAp3AXn6nHDRN5h1lRNh9xU-5bb5fbLdmSuDg/s288/iphone_photo.jpg' border='0' width='280' height='186' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br /><br /><br /><br />There is so much to be said for being untrained. Unfettered. Unanalyzed. Uncritiqued. Unburdened. Not bullied by art teachers through years of schooling. Never told no. Just curiosity and possibilities, pulled by the slipstream that is the wonder of life. A place every painter seeks to but rarely achieves. Tabula rasa. New eyes. New day. Lucky George.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><center><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwMRiFUs-Nq5tE4cDKSHY0_bhZPZd2Yu7Oeff16nc114U5l8m3wXl2R3Cn7PgOIgoWmNn60zwdRqFFhXFhCnXCy-oWV4Mymt1jmZkXTwAKbXDguNXWXNgVau_HZIMcyr9j9yye4g/s288/iphone_photo.jpg'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwMRiFUs-Nq5tE4cDKSHY0_bhZPZd2Yu7Oeff16nc114U5l8m3wXl2R3Cn7PgOIgoWmNn60zwdRqFFhXFhCnXCy-oWV4Mymt1jmZkXTwAKbXDguNXWXNgVau_HZIMcyr9j9yye4g/s288/iphone_photo.jpg' border='0' width='280' height='186' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br /><br /><br /><br />So who knows, maybe one day curious George W Bush will be known more as a painter than a president(what if he had discovered painting first!). No harm in wondering about that, but then again, that's just me.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><b>Addison Parks<br />Spring Hill<br />March 4th, 2017</b><br /><br /><br />Addison Parkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17761481663107145487noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20588196.post-40672317804489861792017-02-19T18:37:00.001-05:002017-02-20T15:02:00.177-05:00Dragon Master: Tony Smith and the Unexpected.<br />
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There is more than one way to skin a cat. But before that there is the one and best way to do something, including skin a cat. The only way.<br />
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A few years ago I purchased a painting at auction that I hoped was by my old friend Leon Polk Smith. It was a medium large, grid based, black and white geometric painting the kind I was assigned as a freshman in art school signed simply Smith 70. <br />
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Smith's longtime partner Bob Jamieson soon enough threw water on my great find in the nicest possible way. Something about it being a little too busy and trying a little too hard for it too be Leon's. Inotherwords not nearly elegant enough.<br />
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I knew it was something though, and I was still convinced it was Leon's. An under bidder, great term, had, after all, tried to offer more for it to me after the auction. This was no freshman project.<br />
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Enter Richard Tuttle. My brief mentor, the young and reluctant guru of my youth who spoke in riddles and got inside my head in a way that pissed me off for decades. He had worked for Betty Parsons and was privy to her store house, her back room stacks of art magic by all the greats who had passed through her gallery on 57th Street in Manhattan. He had claimed one of those as his mentor, Ellsworth Kelly, Leon's successful rival for the crown of elegant hard edged abstraction, even though Leon in turn claimed that she liked him best. <br />
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So I was struck one day while trying to unlock the mystery of this painting I had bought, that of course there was another Smith. Could it be? And then I remembered a story I had read from Kiki Smith about Richard Tuttle hanging around her family's home when she was growing up. I imagined a young Tuttle sitting alone in the living room with maybe a big hairy family dog, being asked to hold something, or if he had seen Seton, or if he would like to stay for dinner. Anything to soak up the enigmatic genius of the prince of American monumental geometric sculpture, Tony Smith. <br />
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Sure enough, it was all right there. The code. The binary bonanza. The bisected squares whose resulting triangles turned black or white, and left or right, to tell their story. <br />
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This is the language of Tony Smith's giant sculpture of the late Sixties and early Seventies. Large black painted aluminum grid and bisected cube based sculptures dreamed together by turning this geometric element one way or the other to see which way it would go and what it would become. Together they moved like a flock of swallows and then suddenly and unexpectedly shifted and surprised you. <br />
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I had a friend whose family had a house in a shoreline Connecticut enclave where Smith, who was also architect, had built a home. Decades ago she drove me by the house. There was also a geometric sculpture, one of the cubes, outside. I knew I was supposed to be impressed. I was still young and not easily impressed and so I wasn't. Maybe one of the worst of many bad qualities. <br />
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But there was his cube. So strong. The ultimate riddle. Patient and wise. Inscrutable. Impenetrable. Infuriating.<br />
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And there I was today, parked in front of this painting. Almost lost in a trance, sometimes dozing, flickering on the edge of consciousness, and it happened, doors began slamming open and closed, dimensions shifted, transformation unfolded right before my eyes. Did I just see that? I shook my head. I googled Tony Smith images on my phone. Still in a daze I rifled through them. Sculptures of huge proportions changing before my eyes, with simple slight of hand, showing me one face, one being, and then another, like dragons doing a secret dance, only to disappear and still themselves in a pose to be invisible to passers by. <br />
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Addison Parks<br />
Spring Hill<br />
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<i>It is worth noting that this painting is probably by some other Smith, despite the similarities. Just a little kickstart for looking at a sculptor who does not get much love these days.</i>Addison Parkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17761481663107145487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20588196.post-13034522201090959202017-02-13T09:28:00.001-05:002017-02-20T13:03:38.587-05:00Valentine<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhslTfx0HwtlSLFe8QmF0MpbU71P1MR10WLAqNirxpecD50mcUBPEi_XQoZe0hsSm74LNS6LzvAWRn6WNgV77NejqT1fsu76sLeGnPHREaNHXOhsvLNAN0H45jUaejwOIFAjL_NKw/s288/iphone_photo.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="312" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhslTfx0HwtlSLFe8QmF0MpbU71P1MR10WLAqNirxpecD50mcUBPEi_XQoZe0hsSm74LNS6LzvAWRn6WNgV77NejqT1fsu76sLeGnPHREaNHXOhsvLNAN0H45jUaejwOIFAjL_NKw/s400/iphone_photo.jpg" style="margin: 5px;" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Addison Parks, Valentine, 2014, oil on board, 6 x 8</td></tr>
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A sweetness<br />
Like honeysuckle<br />
Circles and<br />
Entwines<br />
A place both earthly and divine<br />
In me<br />
From you<br />
A place both earthly and like heaven<br />
Where soft caress and warm breath can leaven <br />
My senses skyward<br />
A high that since the night we met<br />
Has never let<br />
Me down<br />
Just a smile<br />
Everyday<br />
No frown<br />
To delay<br />
This joyous race to<br />
The end.<br />
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Addison Parks<br />
Spring HillAddison Parkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17761481663107145487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20588196.post-64674294167804909392016-12-29T14:30:00.001-05:002017-01-05T13:10:50.452-05:00Younghee Choi Martin: Unconscious! <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCH-Dp5qE3kYkftSErpfs-BznF-lFhr7dFHub_oHg3mc8wCAHjxNslo6Gth7znHECtXk_tKfGuvvBtSqBPnALsMq8c2aQ101gghlOO9Zjd9DY_eGhZBb3sbO17EtMUfiDsDa7Llw/s1600/choi_martin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCH-Dp5qE3kYkftSErpfs-BznF-lFhr7dFHub_oHg3mc8wCAHjxNslo6Gth7znHECtXk_tKfGuvvBtSqBPnALsMq8c2aQ101gghlOO9Zjd9DY_eGhZBb3sbO17EtMUfiDsDa7Llw/s400/choi_martin.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #666666;">Younghee Choi Martin, 2008, </span><i style="color: #666666;">Thunder of Spring</i><span style="color: #666666;">, oil on linen, 74 x 101"</span></td></tr>
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Younghee was in my sophomore painting class at RISD. I had just transferred from Skidmore. It was a very interesting class with a lot of really powerful and diverse painters. Just what I was looking for. And in a very interesting class of powerful and diverse painters, Younghee Choi Martin stood out. You might say that she was the one. I think everybody thought so. And in that really nice way that things sometimes happen, she didn't act like she was that person, she didn't act like she was the star. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpJD1yaPSZTqefp7ppE3rMqUIF-Leq0Q8hl6e81Dqizv9mlxE0gow7bCS306BRPnf4DfmZRb2R9OSC8NZM7ly5-3uTCEqllEk08vOTHOIEN12dYOdjIbKb0DhWMj8uTFaj52oxeA/s1600/Fall_of_Troy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpJD1yaPSZTqefp7ppE3rMqUIF-Leq0Q8hl6e81Dqizv9mlxE0gow7bCS306BRPnf4DfmZRb2R9OSC8NZM7ly5-3uTCEqllEk08vOTHOIEN12dYOdjIbKb0DhWMj8uTFaj52oxeA/s400/Fall_of_Troy.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #666666;">Younghee Choi Martin, 2004, <i>Fall of Troy</i>, oil on linen, 61 x 80"</span></td></tr>
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But as cut throat and competitive as RISD was in general and this class in particular, Younghee Choi Martin was the painter everyone was looking over their shoulder at, wondering what she was doing, how she was seeing and painting what they were all seeing and painting. The year was 1974, the place was the Bank Building's giant painting studio, and the teacher was Lorna Ritz. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #666666;">Younghee Choi Martin, 1999, <i>Violet Air</i></span><span style="color: #666666;">, oil on linen, 23 x 26"</span></td></tr>
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Everybody was good. Everybody brought something to the table. Even the people who seemed forced into the shade were good and offered a unique vision. But Ritz liked playing students against each other to get results. She liked playing favorites to get results. She was that kind of teacher. Lazy. Mean. But even though Younghee was probably the favorite of the favorites, she never acted like it, or even went along with it. She was completely interested in what everyone else was doing.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlgLYh1C7LY2Kjl5ECqvJc9-kk9rAQmGDNSQqgt2c31mrkxgwdxY2kexIhykVuOteKXy9lbxMyU-G9vH6Ms4iJQSbcYWqsq0RwdcZmXJZ0c_yJgTwEn92_SXpUckhw2xtNWhqrnw/s1600/choi_martin10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlgLYh1C7LY2Kjl5ECqvJc9-kk9rAQmGDNSQqgt2c31mrkxgwdxY2kexIhykVuOteKXy9lbxMyU-G9vH6Ms4iJQSbcYWqsq0RwdcZmXJZ0c_yJgTwEn92_SXpUckhw2xtNWhqrnw/s400/choi_martin10.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #666666;">Younghee Choi Martin, 2012, </span><i style="color: #666666;">Grief into Joy</i><span style="color: #666666;">, oil on linen, 18 x 18"</span></td></tr>
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The favorites were all women. A correction for a male dominated art world. Ritz made some of the toughest guys in the class cry. She was legend for it. I had the strange honor of being the only guy included in one of her weekly all women exhibits of the class's work that she would curate in the library. Otherwise she regularly insulted me with her squeaky little voice and smile. I say all this because it made Youngee's humility that much more striking.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh27lrR5ap5nsTYsJqHecDg44gBOI3a6QOH1qt-QvjTCFKTwQOKwow1_EnYm541Y2ntX_hja8BPro_cNAP_cHgAJfeQOK095RZYv6da3TpiJCwIVdGyEGtWQWaVzlkIjn0soPnVnw/s1600/choi_martin12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh27lrR5ap5nsTYsJqHecDg44gBOI3a6QOH1qt-QvjTCFKTwQOKwow1_EnYm541Y2ntX_hja8BPro_cNAP_cHgAJfeQOK095RZYv6da3TpiJCwIVdGyEGtWQWaVzlkIjn0soPnVnw/s400/choi_martin12.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #666666;">Younghee Choi Martin, 2011, </span><i style="color: #666666;">Here is the Meadow Where We Started, Small I</i><span style="color: #666666;">, <br />oil on linen, 15 x 22"</span></td></tr>
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I didn't know Younghee well, but she was always friendly, and a friend of friends. The little I had heard about her was that this very gifted painter had had a hard life. That she still had a hard life. That she lived in a crappy apartment in a crappy part of Providence, without heat. At least that is what I remember. She was way too skinny in that way that says undernourished. But undernourished or not, in the Bank Building, painting, she was a spirit possessed.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #666666;">Younghee Choi Martin, 2007, </span><i style="color: #666666;">Orestes' Revelation</i><span style="color: #666666;">, oil on linen, 30 x 34"</span></td></tr>
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We bumped into each other in New York occasionally years later, still a friend of friends, and she was still alive and painting. The same spirit possessed with a brush in her hand. Our mutual friend Carol Heft, herself a gifted painter from that Bank Building class, has always stayed close to Younghee. Today they show in adjacent galleries in New York City's Chelsea gallery district. The Blue Mountain and Bowery on 25th. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #666666;">Younghee Choi Martin, 2007, </span><i style="color: #666666;">Memory of Dawn</i><span style="color: #666666;">, oil on linen, 9 x 12"</span></td></tr>
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To say that Younghee's work is still the same sounds like a put down, except that she was always good. Anyone who knows me gets that I am free and easy with hyperbole, but also that I generally steer clear of comparisons, and comparative language. Bad, good, better, best. Younghee might be the quiet exception. Quiet, perhaps to her detriment. Quiet, definitely to her detriment if the objective is fame and fortune.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #666666;">Younghee Choi Martin, 2012, </span><i style="color: #666666;">Ascent</i><span style="color: #666666;">, oil on linen, 36 x 45"</span></td></tr>
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Younghee could probably paint the pants off of any painter out there dead or living and they would know it. The Resnicks and Pollocks of this world, no pants. I won't mention the living so as not to embarrass anyone, but we all know who we are.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #666666;">Younghee Choi Martin, 2012, </span><i style="color: #666666;">Here is the </i><span style="color: #666666;"><i>Meadow Where We Started</i>,<br /> oil on linen, 74 x 112"</span></td></tr>
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Unconscious is a word people use to compliment someone's work sometimes, especially athletes. That's Younghee Choi Martin. Unconscious! High praise.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBX0NYJW3hozGqPhKV-tjRWSe-LIkutjqFDNOd_gk-HXh-ClWRdJJVpZZ_nGB-mTyb60_K1O3S6VHFLuIftYlcSwSAAiuWqVkgEvvKVeSztdHtSRmzJNEAoJeN9PSO7DFE1If9iQ/s1600/Ycm-Arcadia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="343" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBX0NYJW3hozGqPhKV-tjRWSe-LIkutjqFDNOd_gk-HXh-ClWRdJJVpZZ_nGB-mTyb60_K1O3S6VHFLuIftYlcSwSAAiuWqVkgEvvKVeSztdHtSRmzJNEAoJeN9PSO7DFE1If9iQ/s400/Ycm-Arcadia.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #666666;">Younghee Choi Martin, 2006, </span><i style="color: #666666;">Arcadia</i><span style="color: #666666;">, oil on linen, 47 x 54"</span></td></tr>
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She paints classical themes. I am not sure why. I could guess. Excuse to make a painting. They read abstractly but they are figures in a setting, a landscape. Maybe she delights in the stories. Maybe she loves the masters. Maybe she likes the way figures like shapes interact in a space. But stroke for stroke she brings paint to life like the first creature that climbed out of the primordial ooze. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #666666;">Younghee Choi Martin, 2012, </span><i style="color: #666666;">Riverbanks</i><span style="color: #666666;">, oil on linen, 81 x 80"</span></td></tr>
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Why some dealer somewhere hasn't given her a parade I will never know. Why the Whitney hasn't called her number is beyond me. Younghee Choi Martin has always been something special.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaazd3zEeLW7mgRmvmbWw3aH55dRmeMyEdTofGOn0nDO6cRZkDfN5QBPdCe8fjg9CoMEwJ9Ipj4T_lRmqyM4fpsFGRCFZ1Jn91plJsaETCjPZgnISfuslSu9-SFxAVPTLxuz_YTQ/s1600/Thunder.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaazd3zEeLW7mgRmvmbWw3aH55dRmeMyEdTofGOn0nDO6cRZkDfN5QBPdCe8fjg9CoMEwJ9Ipj4T_lRmqyM4fpsFGRCFZ1Jn91plJsaETCjPZgnISfuslSu9-SFxAVPTLxuz_YTQ/s400/Thunder.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #666666;">Younghee Choi Martin, 2004, </span><i style="color: #666666;">Thunder of Spring</i><span style="color: #666666;">, oil on linen, 75 x 100"</span></td></tr>
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Addison Parks<br />
Artdeal Magazine<br />
Spring Hill, December 2016<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjubxLCgjz2LMiu7uNVU0QJXXgiDmZeCEi3Q65CNYtK1qpF0j2sCtb4jZi5W3Lxlc6tkCRgx8y9Cqo1zoJ_Yx0o6dIabzQoZei9RlOFiex5JZ-Br5u8XKOCXKLGRagkJ_8e8DuARA/s288/iphone_photo.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjubxLCgjz2LMiu7uNVU0QJXXgiDmZeCEi3Q65CNYtK1qpF0j2sCtb4jZi5W3Lxlc6tkCRgx8y9Cqo1zoJ_Yx0o6dIabzQoZei9RlOFiex5JZ-Br5u8XKOCXKLGRagkJ_8e8DuARA/s400/iphone_photo.jpg" style="margin: 5px;" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #666666;">Younghee Choi Martin</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT4__Nys-usayp5Rt2EJSllpc_kPgINRpKtBKW6bHIcgYxg0NMC4jVR3qrR01O4Z-ILfY0qNKZibpacxJnqk4gA9CxW14X9UcIlZ7AXnkQbwH3ad9OG83tmMK_Ez6U0-tYqk1_ig/s1600/ycmgal1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="100" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT4__Nys-usayp5Rt2EJSllpc_kPgINRpKtBKW6bHIcgYxg0NMC4jVR3qrR01O4Z-ILfY0qNKZibpacxJnqk4gA9CxW14X9UcIlZ7AXnkQbwH3ad9OG83tmMK_Ez6U0-tYqk1_ig/s400/ycmgal1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #666666;">Younghee Choi Martin, 2004, <i>Nabi Gallery, New York</i></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu8gHwy8XDLUzTjvaMLEEqdhEWJVYmLwrj5mPQOnYOuQMGu_e6su9KdbBEeXZ5hwLOLR1kytmLW8u3DNyFky-aKDTNJZbH_XQBnr2kAv4VOaXX7HWiMVtqgetzNmKEPT1Q6fTNfg/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu8gHwy8XDLUzTjvaMLEEqdhEWJVYmLwrj5mPQOnYOuQMGu_e6su9KdbBEeXZ5hwLOLR1kytmLW8u3DNyFky-aKDTNJZbH_XQBnr2kAv4VOaXX7HWiMVtqgetzNmKEPT1Q6fTNfg/s400/images.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #666666;">Younghee Choi Martin, 2012, <i>Bowery Gallery</i></span></td></tr>
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<br />Addison Parkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17761481663107145487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20588196.post-75539964828860685952016-12-22T19:09:00.001-05:002017-01-10T17:17:44.646-05:00I Call Myself Artist<br />
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7ekNKEKWjh9X6NM1ETT4fZzJT1zfH6qKYiUkG7Pd2-Uy6PD9uQw1LekPTUUu8WR78LvBK0i4f0B5YfxmENHx5b_iSbDUAYDLOlbS1rEHbl1TXCrrVQUKyuVijvJbPhRVymdsiIg/s288/iphone_photo.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7ekNKEKWjh9X6NM1ETT4fZzJT1zfH6qKYiUkG7Pd2-Uy6PD9uQw1LekPTUUu8WR78LvBK0i4f0B5YfxmENHx5b_iSbDUAYDLOlbS1rEHbl1TXCrrVQUKyuVijvJbPhRVymdsiIg/s640/iphone_photo.jpg" style="margin: 5px;" width="475" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><span style="color: #666666;">Addison Parks, <i><b>Ear</b></i>, 2016, oil on linen, 14 x 11</span></td></tr>
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Never mind that for years I preferred the more practical term of "painter." I bought into the idea that "artist," like "genius," was something you earned, bestowed upon you by others through merit. <br />
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNrABumqtU_jF4jdgpuYytBS8KDXaPaWMK8iHf8qcJPK0illrzAHyhM-6fZVYWZeakzj4R3LCqQMa7N0CmFojDZmjlekjEqU-bSNhAzp89pRQaGvTeYmorQDbe8oaTDZOQxbRS7w/s1600/AddisonParks_2016.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNrABumqtU_jF4jdgpuYytBS8KDXaPaWMK8iHf8qcJPK0illrzAHyhM-6fZVYWZeakzj4R3LCqQMa7N0CmFojDZmjlekjEqU-bSNhAzp89pRQaGvTeYmorQDbe8oaTDZOQxbRS7w/s640/AddisonParks_2016.jpg" width="512" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><span style="color: #666666;">Addison Parks, <b><i>Lovey</i></b>, 2016, oil on linen, 20 x 16</span></td></tr>
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I can't remember not painting or drawing. They have been my life long companions, helping me through every phase of my life, every adventure, every change, of which there have been many, every joy, every heart break, every mountain climbed, every fall off said mountains.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhghiz1nMmM8jM3Mww2-UjcdDstXQKZfetS16rOlr3sufJ9aERGJ1mGDiiCPg4C5R9gnVr7iNEVfzEJm_wkZSaydkId8h1vn9YNrooLEZINPk9JkVaBBBBYsYmcGQNdYpNoirs5yA/s1600/AddisonParks_2016_d.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhghiz1nMmM8jM3Mww2-UjcdDstXQKZfetS16rOlr3sufJ9aERGJ1mGDiiCPg4C5R9gnVr7iNEVfzEJm_wkZSaydkId8h1vn9YNrooLEZINPk9JkVaBBBBYsYmcGQNdYpNoirs5yA/s640/AddisonParks_2016_d.jpg" width="472" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #666666;">Addison Parks, <b><i>Syrian Kat</i></b>, 2016, oil on linen, 14 x 11</span></td></tr>
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Whenever I read about the Carl Andres of this world declaring an end to the "tradition" of painting and sculpture I just have to laugh and think that they obviously never knew about these things, never experienced them, never found themselves in them, never lost themselves in them, was never remade or reborn in them. They never got it. Easy to just say nanny nanny poo poo. For me it would be like declaring an end to love or sunlight. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdZs52tWTSJi9dplPu8CNei-Q_Ufb_MC4USAWHh7WhDg8PTnQjNHgFQvmlLJuS28s0zimEgTNRuY3JHQIL7vxARpK6W2ULC6xAlrzIY4WSc1fpDGU6MvMil0oUJCdgDzi9CsBXEA/s1600/Addison_Parks_Landscape_w_Blue_Sky.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="624" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdZs52tWTSJi9dplPu8CNei-Q_Ufb_MC4USAWHh7WhDg8PTnQjNHgFQvmlLJuS28s0zimEgTNRuY3JHQIL7vxARpK6W2ULC6xAlrzIY4WSc1fpDGU6MvMil0oUJCdgDzi9CsBXEA/s640/Addison_Parks_Landscape_w_Blue_Sky.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #666666;">Addison Parks, <b><i>Landscape with Blue Sky</i></b>, 1975, oil on board, 16 x 20"<br />collection of Bruce Helander</span></td></tr>
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Now maybe I am like some Beatrix Potter or Emily Dickinson, more than content with the marriage of imagination and the blank page. A recluse with a box of paints or a pen. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFNULwGcPcm6LaM7MSEq9706nNJZ-uyFK68BRMfbyndAGHWpoVrPX7oF1Bg8gzB40FtyvfJywJQpHbsMHyqAGdC1pLPe2x3q4lR1-pSZbiAkG9PsKX3lYI6jqk5zhK0uORqhFeMg/s1600/AddisonParksRome.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFNULwGcPcm6LaM7MSEq9706nNJZ-uyFK68BRMfbyndAGHWpoVrPX7oF1Bg8gzB40FtyvfJywJQpHbsMHyqAGdC1pLPe2x3q4lR1-pSZbiAkG9PsKX3lYI6jqk5zhK0uORqhFeMg/s640/AddisonParksRome.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #666666;">Addison Parks, <b><i>Three Ships</i></b>, 1966, oil on board, 6 x 24"<br />painted on Via della Minerva, Rome</span></td></tr>
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My first box of paints came to me from a mad Welshman my mother had had an affair with when we first moved to Rome. We were flying home to Ohio from a year and a half living on the island of Mykonos and wintering in Athens. I suppose my mother couldn't stand the idea of the options that lay ahead. She looked out the window as we were sitting on the runway in the Rome airport, said quick quick quick, grab your stuff, and we lived there over a five year period, and she for twenty. Until my children were born, Rome was my happiest memory.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><span class="style" style="color: #929292; font-family: , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px; font-weight: 700; line-height: 20px;">Addison Parks</span><span style="background-color: #f4f4f4; color: #929292; font-family: "arialmt" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">, </span><span class="style_1" style="color: #929292; font-family: , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; line-height: 20px; text-decoration: underline;">Brickabrok</span><span class="style_2" style="color: #929292; font-family: , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; line-height: 20px;"> </span><span style="background-color: #f4f4f4; color: #929292; font-family: "arialmt" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">(2016); oil on linen, 16 x 20 inches</span></td></tr>
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The Welshman, Handel Evans, was a brilliant artist and a joy for me and my sister. We made puppets together and drew and painted all the time. He taught me his artist secrets and I was his devoted apprentice. The year was around 1961-62, and JFK was still alive and beloved in Europe. Handel was not an abstractionist, the art which my mother championed(we had paintings by Kline and Resnick and de Stael to name a few), but his work was well informed by it along with automatism, cubism, and surrealism. It was very powerful and original and fully integrated, but at the same time open to inspiration from Bernini and all the juices that flowed from the breast of the beast that was Rome. Like Pollock and de Kooning he came to learn. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><span class="style" style="color: #929292; font-family: , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px; font-weight: 700; line-height: 20px;">Addison Parks</span><span style="background-color: #f4f4f4; color: #929292; font-family: "arialmt" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">, </span><span class="style_1" style="color: #929292; font-family: , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; line-height: 20px; text-decoration: underline;">Ali</span><span class="style_2" style="color: #929292; font-family: , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; line-height: 20px;"> </span><span style="background-color: #f4f4f4; color: #929292; font-family: "arialmt" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">(2016); oil on linen, 16 x 20 inches</span></td></tr>
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In fact we ended up on that street where they had had studios. Via Margutta. My mother had by then traded in Handel for a more handsome arm, a young tenor from Canada, and all that was left of my first mentor was a box of paints under the stairs that I imagined he had left for me. My first oil painting at the age of 8 was of our cat. I can smell those paints still, like a meal wafting from the kitchen, and feel the excitement and trepidation and miracle of this rich, sensuous, malleable substance that could bring a dry brittle white canvas to life.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh39-1UeEC4uV1cJEdPIDv0pR298X7xfKioiEvelTUEjJMoHxiab9sEKnzev09ZPznL0X40zxfjCGEnD5TaQyNZcxfbcv8dzlQCZ3NSfID3UBOkv9jbwaotjMry0C_m8QeUvqHXhg/s288/iphone_photo.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="509" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh39-1UeEC4uV1cJEdPIDv0pR298X7xfKioiEvelTUEjJMoHxiab9sEKnzev09ZPznL0X40zxfjCGEnD5TaQyNZcxfbcv8dzlQCZ3NSfID3UBOkv9jbwaotjMry0C_m8QeUvqHXhg/s640/iphone_photo.jpg" style="margin: 5px;" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="style" style="color: #929292; font-family: , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px; font-weight: 700; line-height: 20px;">Addison Parks</span><span style="background-color: #f4f4f4; color: #929292; font-family: "arialmt" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">, </span><span class="style_1" style="color: #929292; font-family: , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; line-height: 20px; text-decoration: underline;">Banana Bush</span><span class="style_2" style="color: #929292; font-family: , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; line-height: 20px;"> </span><span style="background-color: #f4f4f4; color: #929292; font-family: "arialmt" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">(2016); oil on linen, 16 x 20 inches</span></td></tr>
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Until then Handel had only let me use pencil, and colored inks. Oil paint was for later. Like black shoes, which my mother would not allow. Boys wore brown. And grey flannel shorts. Never long pants. Rain or shine or snow or sleet I wore shorts. I also had a cough all winter long.<br />
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<span class="style" style="font-family: , "arial" , sans-serif; font-weight: 700; line-height: 20px;">Addison Parks</span>, <span class="style_1" style="font-family: , "arial" , sans-serif; font-style: italic; line-height: 20px; text-decoration: underline;">Bending Birches </span>(2016); oil on linen, 16 x 20 inches</div>
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Handel had taught me how to find the painting in the painting surface. How to prepare a wood panel with plaster, and in the barely perceptible patterns commingle memories, dreams, and observations, entwining them by scratching into the plaster and letting the inks flow.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #666666;">2016, in progress</span></td></tr>
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A few years later Gino Severini would recommend the same practice to me, except that he added sand to the fresh plaster to further enhance the patterns and texture.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #666666;">Addison Parks, <b><i>Angel Wings 2</i></b>, oil on linen, 20 x 16"</span></td></tr>
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These days I let a preliminary coat of paint on the canvas guide me in much the same way. Or sometimes I use the canvas as my palette until it sets a course.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2RIKFBRr7oq_IhR3HZv16GpMgUzyYG5iMlZGxNeYwLw5iNTlDkZ9uHuyeFzI6ZDrKXIzu3g2E7ZMcYKnojMSI5dEjkRBBLnDrDKFGfkOqB9AG_HyYGCF8UiajqcDMQ1dRlAadcQ/s288/iphone_photo.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="505" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2RIKFBRr7oq_IhR3HZv16GpMgUzyYG5iMlZGxNeYwLw5iNTlDkZ9uHuyeFzI6ZDrKXIzu3g2E7ZMcYKnojMSI5dEjkRBBLnDrDKFGfkOqB9AG_HyYGCF8UiajqcDMQ1dRlAadcQ/s640/iphone_photo.jpg" style="margin: 5px;" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #666666;">Addison Parks, <b><i>Angel Wings</i></b>, oil on board, 8 x 10"</span></td></tr>
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Then the conversation begins. I listen. I respond. I make a proclamation. I wait for an answer. Somewhere in the dance of all that, things find their way to the surface, they reveal themselves, and I am reborn.<br />
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Addison Parks<br />
Spring Hill, December 2016<br />
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Addison Parkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17761481663107145487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20588196.post-12503659346722025752016-12-16T21:56:00.001-05:002016-12-21T10:50:06.549-05:00THE JOY OF SCULPTURE<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Addison Parks, 2005, wood and paint</td></tr>
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Sculpture was my first love, but let's face it, sculpture doesn't travel well, and we travelled all the time. Painting would have to do. So painting it was, all through school, art school, and my career as an artist. I only took one class, introduction to sculpture, my freshman year in college. It was really called 3D. I have never shown any sculpture professionally outside of my own installations. When it comes to sculpture I am untrained, untutored, and unproven. Outsider. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Addison Parks, 2002, wood and paint</td></tr>
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But I still love it. And over the last twenty years I have turned to it for great pleasure, excitement, and inspiration. Whenever I write about art, great art, great inspiration, the first thing that jumps to mind is always one sculpture. The Winged Victory of Samothrace. First saw it at the age of seven. And then of course the Lions at Delos later that summer made a huge impression. And then of course anything Michelangelo. Or Bernini. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Addison Parks, 2000, wood and paint</td></tr>
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But before all of that there was the giant terra-cotta head my sculptor mother was furiously piecing together in my parents bedroom in Shaker Heights. And then there was every afternoon hanging around the studio of Nino Franchina on Via Margutta in Rome circa 1963. Sculpture was always capturing my attention and I was always making it and leaving it behind. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Addison Parks, 1986, oil, encaustic, mixed media<br />
<i>Sculpture creeping into painting more than painted sculpture.</i></td></tr>
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Stupid, but it was when someone smashed one of my terra-cotta sculptures opening a window that something finally went click. That was it. No more. I must have been 12 at the time. Painting it would have to be. And of course I loved painting anyway, the color, the sense of gesture, and always the physicality of it. Not just the texture. The actual substance of paint. The sculpture of paint.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Addison Parks, 1985, oil, encaustic, mixed media on canvas</td></tr>
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So when it comes to sculpture I am a pure vessel. Pure love. Pure intent. Pure experience. Pure joy. There is a lot to be said for that. I always try to achieve that place in painting, but it is almost impossible. Damaged goods. Too much schooling. Too much mentoring. Too much tutoring. Too much criticism. Too much careerism. Too much expectation. Too much promise.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Addison Parks, 2006, wood and paint</td></tr>
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There is none of that when I make sculpture. I am free. I have even seen people get truly excited by my sculpture, until they found out that it was mine, and then they put their excitement away. No cred. No blessings from any institution, any gallery, or anyone. But in that brief moment I would see a wow in their expression. Not hmmmm. No chin scratching. Just wow!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Addison Parks, 2010, mixed media, found wood and paint</td></tr>
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Mostly what I make these days I do in my wood shop on Spring Hill in Lincoln. On the Cape, in Truro I made small ones with a glue gun on the kitchen counter. But usually the shop. The same tools and materials I use for carpentry and construction. Everything found or from the lumber yard or hardware store. I like the feel of wood. I can't help it. Tried stone and metal but wood feels good. Plus I like the way it takes paint. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Addison Parks in Truro, 2002, wood and paint</td></tr>
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Whenever I feel particularly blocked, in need of a shot in the arm, it has been sculpture that saves me. Some pieces of wood, glue, a nail gun, a little paint, and I am off to the races.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Addison Parks, 2010, found wood and paint</td></tr>
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It has always been true that if I could just make a good painting, then all was right with the world. Funny thing is, all I have ever had to do was make a sculpture, period. Good never entered into it. Judgment never entered into it. Just joy. Pure joy.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Addison Parks, 2007, wood and paint</td></tr>
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Addison Parks<br />
Spring Hill<br />
December 2016<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Addison Parks, December 2016, Spring Hill</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Addison Parks, 2010, found wood </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Addison Parks, 2009, found wood and paint</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Addison Parks, 2007, wood and paint</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Addison Parks, 2006, mixed media, found wood and paint</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">These pieces I did out in Truro in the summer of 2002-2003. The simplicity of them appealed to me. 2x4s and dowels and paint. Reminded me a the tie makers challenge. How to make as many interesting striped ties with just three colors.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kindling and paint. 2006</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wood shims, glue gun and paint. 2006</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Addison Parks, 1985, oil, encaustic, mixed media on board<br />
These pieces were all considered dream images. A swirl of life on another plane. Love and art.<br />
The sculpture just keeps climbing into the paintings. Not quite feeling permission yet to just make sculpture. Sculptors are a whole other kettle of fish. A whole other tribe. I tribe I don't belong to. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Addison Parks, 1985, oil, encaustic, mixed media on burlap and cardboard</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzcaWbZSck8K6gXIWrAtzPDiKVPNzi2kzQpk5L4X7AKP3j12CIZLj1cwOpAES9MNG2s4BiDE9TUZT0Q3-MhiLJ24XnLqWvE114s8myDhIPLuQgrgjS30kXKnE1N1ctISc5Hg7F3g/s1600/addison_parks_0072.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzcaWbZSck8K6gXIWrAtzPDiKVPNzi2kzQpk5L4X7AKP3j12CIZLj1cwOpAES9MNG2s4BiDE9TUZT0Q3-MhiLJ24XnLqWvE114s8myDhIPLuQgrgjS30kXKnE1N1ctISc5Hg7F3g/s640/addison_parks_0072.jpg" width="428" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Addison Parks, 1985, oil, encaustic, mixed media on canvas<br />
Part of this whole Dreaming of Trees series that flowered in Providence.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2TD99cB9D-Nw7tsKbkYbXk4qVmkD7SEqKsxK2mUFHrByIHYNAypN_StsbTkB9cQK9OeyBvvYvDIDpQfsQLVnlbET2JFucEpeT2ZhdR4x4tlI824eYSuzVXVokI5xbjxNOmCf0Eg/s288/iphone_photo.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2TD99cB9D-Nw7tsKbkYbXk4qVmkD7SEqKsxK2mUFHrByIHYNAypN_StsbTkB9cQK9OeyBvvYvDIDpQfsQLVnlbET2JFucEpeT2ZhdR4x4tlI824eYSuzVXVokI5xbjxNOmCf0Eg/s640/iphone_photo.jpg" style="margin: 5px;" width="443" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This piece was companion to the works on paper with house paints I had mixed in the paint store. 1987. Providence, Rhode Island. Wood scraps from the lumberyard. Always a favorite source of inspiration. I was also teaching at RISD at the time. Classes in painting designed to free up the students. Water based paints on paper. Move fast.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbstH9DFq0dPXtSKaKDRi0SkKZIeCCBMw3AcTgayBnLqnAsN2A7m4bVQ48Yau9O54d-dlNsDK8ODXmt_7TAwQOJ-As8UK238EO3lMEKYJeI0wi3xVh82f8nQo2BqOWD_6s7jWnPg/s1600/AddisonParksScullpture2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbstH9DFq0dPXtSKaKDRi0SkKZIeCCBMw3AcTgayBnLqnAsN2A7m4bVQ48Yau9O54d-dlNsDK8ODXmt_7TAwQOJ-As8UK238EO3lMEKYJeI0wi3xVh82f8nQo2BqOWD_6s7jWnPg/s640/AddisonParksScullpture2.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I started these pieces on the Cape in 2006. Pieces of wood from the lumber yard used as shims. A glue gun and some paint and some fun.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihA7QY3JELerZqu_q5Wg_vH49lPrdJJBW_w6ceKO4-efZn9PdqS_0lvoaftx4Yd5HXkN0dc7AwCjDllIoDOoYKAA2KRq3fiR6LogCVannwi2_5hIqSLxZtPNgbkS-uA_htRiFSag/s1600/AddisonParksSculpture.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihA7QY3JELerZqu_q5Wg_vH49lPrdJJBW_w6ceKO4-efZn9PdqS_0lvoaftx4Yd5HXkN0dc7AwCjDllIoDOoYKAA2KRq3fiR6LogCVannwi2_5hIqSLxZtPNgbkS-uA_htRiFSag/s640/AddisonParksSculpture.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In the summer of 2009 in Truro it was time to clean up some of my wood pile. Old stretchers. Nail gun. Paint.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqSuEDz6zp48h2kSfEHayRhTG4VERSUKparA91jFS7EsKfq14iI0Z6yjwDUQSZj-jFA6ZdJ9nJo4kObhyfAPM8mHtCpwcDTw9zIPzsvlUyHqS_rf4WUDLzgAHqt5Vyfusxul8E0A/s1600/AddisonparksSC.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqSuEDz6zp48h2kSfEHayRhTG4VERSUKparA91jFS7EsKfq14iI0Z6yjwDUQSZj-jFA6ZdJ9nJo4kObhyfAPM8mHtCpwcDTw9zIPzsvlUyHqS_rf4WUDLzgAHqt5Vyfusxul8E0A/s640/AddisonparksSC.jpg" width="478" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">2010 in Truro. Old chairs with glue and a nail gun and more fun.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoroy_lM3ecxlr8l-nr43tF_P2CDxgji9z81eV6IiO06bsmH7-uCtI0W7L69Y7gyjkU2QdZPsTJIgqQVfLbsHzZ8jiJ4bLOE_A2AtjuptZsheZ4tWf78MYaS-mhasd7bBeD7Odhw/s1600/IMG_1729.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoroy_lM3ecxlr8l-nr43tF_P2CDxgji9z81eV6IiO06bsmH7-uCtI0W7L69Y7gyjkU2QdZPsTJIgqQVfLbsHzZ8jiJ4bLOE_A2AtjuptZsheZ4tWf78MYaS-mhasd7bBeD7Odhw/s640/IMG_1729.jpg" width="478" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This motif shows up over and over for me. Tree. Figure. 2010 Truro. The stripe paintings in 1998 became the tree figure paintings in 2015.</td></tr>
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<br />Addison Parkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17761481663107145487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20588196.post-37164547432208759212016-11-28T14:46:00.000-05:002016-12-08T14:25:25.391-05:00LEE KRASNER: REVELATION<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuoO9CNjW8bFrzhJCsqYZCuuHmO49E2r8J6Fuqn77LqCkJIoVRtQ2GfIn1iJ7_MUBBUjS5kAM4PNRG4HJioGSp5PvkvR0dDk2OpoURIovWbARFlMRkYsbPRPLu-uqXpHgdGmM-vA/s1600/lee-krasner-autumnal-red.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuoO9CNjW8bFrzhJCsqYZCuuHmO49E2r8J6Fuqn77LqCkJIoVRtQ2GfIn1iJ7_MUBBUjS5kAM4PNRG4HJioGSp5PvkvR0dDk2OpoURIovWbARFlMRkYsbPRPLu-uqXpHgdGmM-vA/s400/lee-krasner-autumnal-red.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #666666;">Lee Krasner, <i>Autumnal Red</i>, 1980,<br />oil and collage on canvas, 56' x 73"</span></td></tr>
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Lee Krasner has always been a big question mark. For most of her life, unfairly or not, she languished in the shade of her famous husband, Jackson Pollock. Is she a hell of a painter in her own right, and his equal? Is she the beneficiary of his success or cursed by it? We will never know the answers to most of the questions surrounding this quietly central figure in the history of America's most original, powerful, and influential art movement.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj3fE2kJs_3CcLhyJkWSwcs0wAi2yvJWKoKgtm5WldJQS0tdWcOJkW6lr_FUibGzi87lnc2I0OLrM6AvCqvVTYfI_3PFmPNt912fqdQ2WSt-5UZRmVC-jfXHOBzinvV18SoYEliQ/s1600/Krasner_Untitled_MR17_IMAGE_ONLY2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj3fE2kJs_3CcLhyJkWSwcs0wAi2yvJWKoKgtm5WldJQS0tdWcOJkW6lr_FUibGzi87lnc2I0OLrM6AvCqvVTYfI_3PFmPNt912fqdQ2WSt-5UZRmVC-jfXHOBzinvV18SoYEliQ/s400/Krasner_Untitled_MR17_IMAGE_ONLY2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
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<em>Untitled</em>, 1965</div>
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gouache on paper</div>
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25 x 38 inches, signed and dated</div>
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For example, was it instead Pollock who was the beneficiary of Krasner's vision and art smarts and inspirations and aspirations and genius? A lot of smart people seem to think so. The timeline suggests that she was at the very least a catalyst and guide and counsel at a critical moment in his history. Just how impossible was the glass ceiling for any woman painter like Lee Krasner? Will she be forever the B to his A? A foot note in his glorious history. Can she ever be set free? A lot of people have tried. Can future generations of artists and art historians and art lovers see that playing field level? One would hope so.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFTjqRm-0swSXhzOEhbAwFgWeaB8yjo49W8ote-F6XK7SgTZMa_jB63R9BIgb6K2WaOxZc-0aCgPMSJJjOosLeoDKmYL5txzD1XY5uBx-ipYDBCrSpOsmtSShoe7mPObTw3-Veuw/s1600/8e2791d81f1e475e62e65c17a07ddc60.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="340" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFTjqRm-0swSXhzOEhbAwFgWeaB8yjo49W8ote-F6XK7SgTZMa_jB63R9BIgb6K2WaOxZc-0aCgPMSJJjOosLeoDKmYL5txzD1XY5uBx-ipYDBCrSpOsmtSShoe7mPObTw3-Veuw/s400/8e2791d81f1e475e62e65c17a07ddc60.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #666666;">Pollock and Krasner in the studio, 1949</span></td></tr>
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Six months after her death at the age of 75, in 1984, the Museum of Modern Art in New York gave her a retrospective. These are the things every wishful young would-be artist is warned about. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTLt6LfJq1TnfMeZiladgPmtZ1SfYraRW3xZkMbW8z6dlT4_uz224UBDK38aqbDWQMTaliT0L2bLKARTRSlhLW8hvSZWfK-7JU9q8rC_nwqyNGBPdbdnXT0akFy2t9VHHlEwSpfg/s1600/01-02WT_A31.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="345" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTLt6LfJq1TnfMeZiladgPmtZ1SfYraRW3xZkMbW8z6dlT4_uz224UBDK38aqbDWQMTaliT0L2bLKARTRSlhLW8hvSZWfK-7JU9q8rC_nwqyNGBPdbdnXT0akFy2t9VHHlEwSpfg/s400/01-02WT_A31.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lee Krasner, Celebration, 1960, Cleveland Museum of Art</td></tr>
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But then again fame and success and recognition are not why artists are born. She must have known that. But still, when everyone is fawning over your partner, the person you painted along side, struggled along side, suffered along side, celebrated along side, and carried half the time, it has to be a bitter pill. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnDDmMyGspJiibzlJU-1itlrrqCtriFp-YY4embADh63GwMwaU0xM8Z3P7REAFroKH9RlFO8q3tZP55fD6sbUv9h0tZ4Smf480703ZqEMXqneaUDkrrkOfIR9jDXLZdLt-fJ8OcA/s1600/d76773_7bbfd15196254b8fad67e8b716eaf657.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnDDmMyGspJiibzlJU-1itlrrqCtriFp-YY4embADh63GwMwaU0xM8Z3P7REAFroKH9RlFO8q3tZP55fD6sbUv9h0tZ4Smf480703ZqEMXqneaUDkrrkOfIR9jDXLZdLt-fJ8OcA/s400/d76773_7bbfd15196254b8fad67e8b716eaf657.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lee Krasner, Robert Miller installation view, 2016</td></tr>
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I once stood and chatted with the artist Pat Passloff, not that she was ever the kind of person that chatted, while people literally lined up to trip all over her more celebrated painter husband, Milton Resnick, and the hurt and yearning and pain and rage was palpable as she looked on. It would have taken a team of miners to have plumbed the depths of those emotions and have lived to tell about it. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz7jEj5JhvyJT7hBGL7bykKFDNvqrvEfZcWKqlMJK7OiBqZaLsbIlN_rN1ygDbJOtijti12NbzNNrk59W4UoImGlVfjKEg-8UwS4ZoIYC5iK8GyhuZafbbpX1-ZWst9huNYBAvFQ/s1600/hb_1995.595.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz7jEj5JhvyJT7hBGL7bykKFDNvqrvEfZcWKqlMJK7OiBqZaLsbIlN_rN1ygDbJOtijti12NbzNNrk59W4UoImGlVfjKEg-8UwS4ZoIYC5iK8GyhuZafbbpX1-ZWst9huNYBAvFQ/s400/hb_1995.595.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Night Creatures, 1965, acrylic on paper, 30 x 42"</td></tr>
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That Pollock died young at 44 in 1956 must have made things a little different. Perhaps there was some measure of consolation that she would not just stand him, stand for him, but stand in for him and become synonymous with him. Pollock-Krasner. Still, people think and talk and write about him all the time without mentioning her, and that just doesn't happen the other way around.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lee Krasner</td></tr>
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So no, we will never know the answer to all of these questions. I can't even say if she was a hell of a painter. But...all of that aside, she sure made some damn good paintings! Some damn good paintings in her own right. Some damn good paintings that don't just stand up, and hold up, along side her husband, Pollock, her teacher, Hans Hoffman, her peers, and in the history books, but stand up and hold up in and of themselves, as powerful examples of what makes life beautiful and special and meaningful and worth living, and locates a place in time that she helped define, for posterity. I'm sorry, but you can't do better than that. You really can't ask for more than that. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: , serif; font-size: 11px;">Lee Krasner</span><br />
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<em style="box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 11px;">Another Storm</em><span style="background-color: white; font-family: , serif; font-size: 11px;">, 1963</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: , serif; font-size: 11px;">signed and dated bottom right</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: , serif; font-size: 11px;">oil on canvas</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: , serif; font-size: 11px;">94 x 176 1/4 inches</span><br />
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Lee Krasner's 1963 painting "Another Storm" could stand alongside the Winged Victory of Samothrace in the Louvre. Alongside the Mona Lisa in the Louvre. Picasso's Guernica. Rothko in the Tate. Turner in the Tate. Happily. Monet's Waterlilies. Alongside Jackson Pollock anywhere. Hans Hoffman anywhere. Lee Krasner's Another Storm is an inspiration. Lee Krasner's Another Storm is a knockout. Lee Krasner's Another Storm is a vision of hope for generations to come. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjltEsNvdbrWTYdDJwBDiEelujpelNTi082mE6FC-HeY56bc7ITWvcJdufGcEiGJZnsvAhF7hcYMuyXarrQlWKDmRZBqV4PX1LpG6k-by4EDzSldfYBwa_ReP-yROAzItcS_04L6w/s1600/IMG_2103.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjltEsNvdbrWTYdDJwBDiEelujpelNTi082mE6FC-HeY56bc7ITWvcJdufGcEiGJZnsvAhF7hcYMuyXarrQlWKDmRZBqV4PX1LpG6k-by4EDzSldfYBwa_ReP-yROAzItcS_04L6w/s640/IMG_2103.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Detail, Another Storm</td></tr>
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Lee Krasner's Another Storm is not influenced, or in anyone's shadow, but a powerful, original masterpiece, an epic painting filled with what would seem to be several lifetimes of wisdom and experience. True to its name, it thrashes about with all of the scope of Shakespeare at his grandest, of Mozart or Beethoven at their grandest, of nature at its grandest, of life as we have come to know it as a sweeping, at once glorious and awesome and terrifying and joyful and heartbreaking and ugly and beautiful and chaotic and harmonious spectacle impossible to put into words but left to artists to try to capture, to give us some idea, to remind us and share with us. Lee Krasner's Another Storm is nothing short of a revelation.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fxwf70K2YeVXwGk1kMlXKXq3nx6r6uHJhnY8dTQV6UzjyYYeMQubm3LhCLfh_ngFJLyOMyeHgn45Sjx2afWdrCnC9ogN3fPmJeKAnEgS5uyDr5MQRw1AHpN4moRJezgxMXGZQA/s1600/lee+krasner-another+storm.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="610" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fxwf70K2YeVXwGk1kMlXKXq3nx6r6uHJhnY8dTQV6UzjyYYeMQubm3LhCLfh_ngFJLyOMyeHgn45Sjx2afWdrCnC9ogN3fPmJeKAnEgS5uyDr5MQRw1AHpN4moRJezgxMXGZQA/s640/lee+krasner-another+storm.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another Storm, Robert Miller Gallery installation, 2016</td></tr>
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Addison Parks<br />
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Artdeal Magazine<br />
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Spring Hill, November 2016<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh89-eGbDkRFvQ3WZtmvufcTLsKLgH7dLae85Ybo2oGeigEiR8bytsbxWpn7Ofh8wHC6EUX70rt1L3kYG5mlNvUfJVF096RUibtZkS4oHZ_yfe3A0J8KKxpH7DBDyJzZfuf05KzoA/s1600/Lee_Krasner-1024x683-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh89-eGbDkRFvQ3WZtmvufcTLsKLgH7dLae85Ybo2oGeigEiR8bytsbxWpn7Ofh8wHC6EUX70rt1L3kYG5mlNvUfJVF096RUibtZkS4oHZ_yfe3A0J8KKxpH7DBDyJzZfuf05KzoA/s640/Lee_Krasner-1024x683-1.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another Storm, Paul Kasmin booth at Art Basel in Miami Beach, 2016 *</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHIAQrnq5xWq9cNk6UldbKt16dsqQBVbq1XFXRgv2_ZPG-Wr3elIVANtQ7mATWxRU7eQpTrePtBWA3O87Xo9tu8-Tf4X03trqG3IvEv8AWOSxJfi90cbqULJhmZRPCM9Kxq6_4dQ/s1600/krasner-040811-1425711088.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="337" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHIAQrnq5xWq9cNk6UldbKt16dsqQBVbq1XFXRgv2_ZPG-Wr3elIVANtQ7mATWxRU7eQpTrePtBWA3O87Xo9tu8-Tf4X03trqG3IvEv8AWOSxJfi90cbqULJhmZRPCM9Kxq6_4dQ/s640/krasner-040811-1425711088.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lee Krasner after Pollock</td></tr>
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*<a href="http://www.paulkasmingallery.com/artist/lee-krasner" target="_blank">Courtesy the Paul Kasmin Gallery, New York</a><br />
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<br />Addison Parkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17761481663107145487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20588196.post-65738635032027759892016-11-25T18:46:00.001-05:002016-11-27T11:37:52.787-05:00Joan Snyder: No Time To Lose<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKPUVhJQvswHvpJO8UQZ1ItAPJcSeVuhuqt6TDlkdBhHXBOm_C4N-W9Mk3ctVqBy5YcloZJsMcfgVbzsFP3dnaV4tEri53d46TYpFP0EQKkUe2NwnEz26UnxAOU9uCOeBX2Ic1sA/s288/iphone_photo.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKPUVhJQvswHvpJO8UQZ1ItAPJcSeVuhuqt6TDlkdBhHXBOm_C4N-W9Mk3ctVqBy5YcloZJsMcfgVbzsFP3dnaV4tEri53d46TYpFP0EQKkUe2NwnEz26UnxAOU9uCOeBX2Ic1sA/s400/iphone_photo.jpg" style="margin: 5px;" width="394" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #666666; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; text-align: start;">Are Mine, </em><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">2010</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">Oil, acrylic, glitter, rosebuds, burlap on panel</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">30 x 30 inches</span></td></tr>
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Joan Snyder paints us an interior landscape, an inside garden, if you will. It is a mythical place, a profound place, scratched out of the earth inside her. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSfzh2sKjuVB0L7woTNkgBhjcybRX4BZiNdl0oZ0Y6Stn5Ok9f85U0CSv93mtm-4kiZDmtY7JCVuGGZc1NU7tJ6oQGIZU0F87Ur3LG6VffOHBdyWpxNBFgSRJt_Hx3vvC5gXYUHQ/s288/iphone_photo.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSfzh2sKjuVB0L7woTNkgBhjcybRX4BZiNdl0oZ0Y6Stn5Ok9f85U0CSv93mtm-4kiZDmtY7JCVuGGZc1NU7tJ6oQGIZU0F87Ur3LG6VffOHBdyWpxNBFgSRJt_Hx3vvC5gXYUHQ/s400/iphone_photo.jpg" style="margin: 5px;" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Joan Snyder, Magic Meadow, 2007</td></tr>
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There are deeply rooted plants, beds, rows, flowers, fields. Everything grows there. Memories, dreams, ideas, revelations. Disappointments, joys, sorrows, and hopes. She loads them up like Viking Funeral ships and floats them out to sea. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7zJLa97oHRLji0G5LMHH-Uy-6gs5KjrCh1sHGLxgkJuiRq2JRx2gJM7SRsqZ2C4oVraVCn92wQFnkiEKPRqaEfJKq42VXPou1KlZqcbAp9FzbFs6t4fx3_rcZjz7FTKZG3Qwmww/s288/iphone_photo.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="234" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7zJLa97oHRLji0G5LMHH-Uy-6gs5KjrCh1sHGLxgkJuiRq2JRx2gJM7SRsqZ2C4oVraVCn92wQFnkiEKPRqaEfJKq42VXPou1KlZqcbAp9FzbFs6t4fx3_rcZjz7FTKZG3Qwmww/s400/iphone_photo.jpg" style="margin: 5px;" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; text-align: left;">1970 oil, acrylic, and spray enamel on canvas, 72" x 96</span></td></tr>
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We get to witness them float by one by one, like the Macy's Day Parade. Her beds of roses. Her Rose Bowl Parade.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTdcJV6QTkAGomDIVoFYp3zOoeuynniIe7cYhe30wlTGX1KAyrcFS05GaoWO5Pu1P0Dm4XzqmPa80-oSBI6VwMtbdX-81FrZxTeeMyAELO0zPJE3TnZG2JbmoV9BJ6Uz-A-sGAYg/s288/iphone_photo.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="188" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTdcJV6QTkAGomDIVoFYp3zOoeuynniIe7cYhe30wlTGX1KAyrcFS05GaoWO5Pu1P0Dm4XzqmPa80-oSBI6VwMtbdX-81FrZxTeeMyAELO0zPJE3TnZG2JbmoV9BJ6Uz-A-sGAYg/s400/iphone_photo.jpg" style="margin: 5px;" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #666666; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; text-align: start;">Nights of Summer</em><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">2010</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">Oil, acrylic, paper mache on linen</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">30 x 64 inches</span></td></tr>
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As we watch them go by we admire them. We admire them like a garden. We notice there is more. Messages scrawled in the dirt. They sing to us. Strange and mysterious songs of all manner of experience. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHsdAx6H2QPHyJRH001hj6Q5j3jEOdLmJ8FUb3A4XEbkbgMjH_7fFliDBGL5qb2zbikEDeDVOhwXcRmyRn2c8BBRy5-sBWuB0h_RR2l33r6YjsR8Mo02hqO5VMp7l4RIHOoTyDxw/s288/iphone_photo.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="397" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHsdAx6H2QPHyJRH001hj6Q5j3jEOdLmJ8FUb3A4XEbkbgMjH_7fFliDBGL5qb2zbikEDeDVOhwXcRmyRn2c8BBRy5-sBWuB0h_RR2l33r6YjsR8Mo02hqO5VMp7l4RIHOoTyDxw/s400/iphone_photo.jpg" style="margin: 5px;" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="style_1" style="color: #666666; font-family: , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-weight: 700; line-height: 14.43999981880188px;">Joan Snyder</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">; </span><span class="style_2" style="color: #666666; font-family: , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-style: italic; line-height: 14.43999981880188px;">Yellow Was Blue</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"> (2013); 48" x 48"</span></td></tr>
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They circle around and spiral down inside us. Like sirens they pull us onto their rocks. We drown in their paint and colors and song. We turn in the eddies of paint and flotsam and jetsam in her paintings and they in turn drill eddies of the like inside of us. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUyPzJNl_oNweQ7SVYNCPJDNnmZOvJ5m3Tq1wkBMSrFPW2pni6pOwLqVChj1bwfn_plhNTobUkdusSKrpJ_o8UmS073DDLhf0ZyeRe2YntorVrrxwebOHocPoc1F4Irlfo9YOU-Q/s288/iphone_photo.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="277" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUyPzJNl_oNweQ7SVYNCPJDNnmZOvJ5m3Tq1wkBMSrFPW2pni6pOwLqVChj1bwfn_plhNTobUkdusSKrpJ_o8UmS073DDLhf0ZyeRe2YntorVrrxwebOHocPoc1F4Irlfo9YOU-Q/s400/iphone_photo.jpg" style="margin: 5px;" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i style="color: #333333; font-family: verdana; font-size: 10px; text-align: start;">"New Moonfield", 2008<br /> Acrylic, burlap, silk, cheesecloth, wooden beads, paper mache on linen, <br />54"×78"</i></td></tr>
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Joan Snyder has always been a poet painter. She has always plumbed the depths beneath the painted surface. It has been ideal for her. A place to have it all. The poem and the garden, in paint. A place to put it all, tend it all, realize it all, act it all out. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirH-s9hyphenhyphenUvv43hTvUgkcSV4ib4QKxtRZA3hP9c8hWdqdBZ0aZ4rGwLPN_0SauusIOcK41h1jaqfMSDfD0VKvmN0uhj0z-XEeoIC8DbCOIzieyi10yw5nZHeXwOaT-DDjFQBHqopg/s288/iphone_photo.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="398" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirH-s9hyphenhyphenUvv43hTvUgkcSV4ib4QKxtRZA3hP9c8hWdqdBZ0aZ4rGwLPN_0SauusIOcK41h1jaqfMSDfD0VKvmN0uhj0z-XEeoIC8DbCOIzieyi10yw5nZHeXwOaT-DDjFQBHqopg/s400/iphone_photo.jpg" style="margin: 5px;" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; text-align: left;">1970 oil, acrylic, and spray enamel on canvas, 72" x 96</span></td></tr>
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Yes, there is theater here. Drama here. A stage. Joan Snyder gets to set the stage in her paintings and the actors play their parts, engage each other in action, stand up for what's right, and tell their stories. Passionately. Fiercely. Social justice, political protest, world events, tragedy, history, comedy, romance. Love and death. Hope and glory. Birth, rebirth, transformation, redemption, celebration. It is all there. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDSsO3UccMgx7eTcLzUr-L7kPHVEjo3LveTIAIY_i2p-1LekkL2ANbQ948kFWoWtNHV4pSZZHkGJ0KMTOMvHNCp499O2iQWwi2EV1uYV40QD5iQQYza1D_G5LI7DMS32y84Ie0tA/s288/iphone_photo.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="171" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDSsO3UccMgx7eTcLzUr-L7kPHVEjo3LveTIAIY_i2p-1LekkL2ANbQ948kFWoWtNHV4pSZZHkGJ0KMTOMvHNCp499O2iQWwi2EV1uYV40QD5iQQYza1D_G5LI7DMS32y84Ie0tA/s400/iphone_photo.jpg" style="margin: 5px;" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong style="color: #565656; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; text-align: left;">WOL</strong><span style="color: #565656; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12px; text-align: left;">, 2010 (standing for "Women of Liberia")</span><br />
<em style="color: #565656; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; text-align: left;">oil, acrylic, paper mache, mud, cloth, seeds and glass beads on linen</em></td></tr>
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Joan Snyder's paintings have always been wise down to their roots. The wisdom of the ages. Very serious stuff. And well they should be? They have truths to tell, fields to plant. There is no time to lose.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Q5spah6DL3afr1YL9BQQ1Ry3kKQjp0cbi179pZiCBGhw5H_lyfdVrbE5vbK3zlWC9ZbZ7olqwMYpGvxhuVLIPpVmy71mf3IrOXpziQZSoNE_9c0njDmondklbT48YHPS2pgz_A/s288/iphone_photo.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="277" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Q5spah6DL3afr1YL9BQQ1Ry3kKQjp0cbi179pZiCBGhw5H_lyfdVrbE5vbK3zlWC9ZbZ7olqwMYpGvxhuVLIPpVmy71mf3IrOXpziQZSoNE_9c0njDmondklbT48YHPS2pgz_A/s400/iphone_photo.jpg" style="margin: 5px;" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Avenir LT W01_35 Light'; font-size: 11px; line-height: 15px;">
ALIZARIN AND ICE, 2006</div>
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Oil, acrylic, twigs, seeds, fabric, paper,</div>
<div style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Avenir LT W01_35 Light'; font-size: 11px; line-height: 15px;">
glitter on linen</div>
<div style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Avenir LT W01_35 Light'; font-size: 11px; line-height: 15px;">
42 x 62 inches</div>
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Addison Parks<br />
Artdeal Magazine<br />
Spring Hill, November 2016<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Purple Passion, 2012 - Joan Snyder" height="288" itemprop="image" src="https://uploads2.wikiart.org/images/joan-snyder/purple-passion-2012.jpg!Large.jpg" style="display: block; height: auto; margin: 0px auto; max-height: 100%; max-width: 100%;" title="Purple Passion, 2012 - Joan Snyder" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Joan Snyder 2012</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUheCmCmzWhWukZWxbhh589OWh99BE2Bi109DK6gMeK7VjO5EJiAKEwaHUoomBiB_oo4Cn4NFWn40ue1xuM_KlZkiN73zuATfjtOh_JWAOgkHXc5IFLNd83B5ZNmPcPMVz9n8d2A/s288/iphone_photo.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUheCmCmzWhWukZWxbhh589OWh99BE2Bi109DK6gMeK7VjO5EJiAKEwaHUoomBiB_oo4Cn4NFWn40ue1xuM_KlZkiN73zuATfjtOh_JWAOgkHXc5IFLNd83B5ZNmPcPMVz9n8d2A/s400/iphone_photo.jpg" style="margin: 5px;" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Joan Snyder with Proserpina in progress, 2012</td></tr>
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<br />Addison Parkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17761481663107145487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20588196.post-31379504720288783532016-11-18T13:44:00.001-05:002016-11-21T18:47:00.722-05:00Martin Mugar: The Light That Shines From Within<br />
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<i style="color: #666666;">"I started building the images of letters, merging nature and culture."</i></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGJo24kBW4_afDc6-wE6VPBpFnPcjLQEGuTKJomyrs57RrvHfsAY8o6pGpVMb6nPYEdU7zyGeO9WwdiPkdkNtEwkdAk2BJoPNhD1TiYyHJvNoj6B9XBoQUHfnqLKJ-q1A7viBy6Q/s1600/Martin_Mugar.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGJo24kBW4_afDc6-wE6VPBpFnPcjLQEGuTKJomyrs57RrvHfsAY8o6pGpVMb6nPYEdU7zyGeO9WwdiPkdkNtEwkdAk2BJoPNhD1TiYyHJvNoj6B9XBoQUHfnqLKJ-q1A7viBy6Q/s400/Martin_Mugar.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Martin Mugar at Bromfield, 2013</td></tr>
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A few years back Martin Mugar hit a beautiful wall. His work had arrived at such a sublime place that he might as well have disappeared in the morning mist, taken a swan dive off the precipice where he found himself. It was time to shake things up. It was a beautiful thing, but his journey was far from over. It was time to retrace his steps and find another path. Maybe something a little rockier.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Detail</td></tr>
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For fifteen years Martin Mugar had evolved and fine tuned his spiritual vision of dissolving color, energy, and matter into light; an almost ironic, even paradoxical experience created by using a painting process of thick, heavy, encaustic impasto that seemed more like relief sculpture than painting. The power of these works and the heights Mugar achieved is undeniable. They are unlike anything else. Impossible to quantify. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Martin Mugar, 2014, #46, 48" x 44"</td></tr>
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It is a true measure of their originality that no one knows quite what to make of them. They are otherworldly, almost aloof. They are like the daughter that no man is good enough for. Martin Mugar has staked his entire life and career on this work. Instead of turning back when he received too little critical acclaim for all of his prodigious efforts, he doubled down and pushed on. One day museums will make his curious pastry-like confections of pure light the cornerstone of their collections, but until then he does what he does, like some sailor explorer, painting away in his studio near the water in Southern New Hampshire.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Martin Mugar, 2010, 44" x 42"</td></tr>
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Near the water is important. Martin Mugar sails his boat in those waters. He catches the light that breathes life into his paintings. Out on the water is a sanctuary of sorts, as is his studio, as is his work. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Martin Mugar, 2014, 42" x 44"</td></tr>
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So when he had gone as far as he could go, he made a change. He started out with a switch from the simple form of a stroke, a mark, a squiggle, to the more complex gesture of letters and words and calligraphy. Who could have predicted where this would go? At first glance the paintings looked somewhat the same. A closer inspection however revealed the letters and possible words they formed in the sea of pastel colors that had become his trademark and avenue to luminosity. Letters and words in a great jumble that call out, cry out, fermenting a great poetry, fomenting a great poetry, bursting out in song, in longing, in yearning, in eloquence, in prose, in rage, in sweetness and in pain. A great orgasmic graffiti battle, part tourette's, part scatological orgy, part wild celebration, of transcendence, ascendance, revelation, and triumph.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Detail, Martin Mugar</td></tr>
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These complex forms within forms opened the door to the most recent paintings. The new marks look like more scribbles in paint, but they become so much more than just letters; each one is like a small sculpture. Each one is a small sculpture inside of the larger monolithic, monochromatic wall of a Mugar sculpture/painting. They are like figures. Like the figures on Rodin's Gates of Hell. The way they nest inside the larger work, inhabit the larger work, allows for endless joy and adventure and expression and discovery. There is great drama there. Great passion. Great power and humanity and cosmic force. A great swirl of cosmic force that opens up new worlds.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Detail, Rodin's Gates of Hell</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Martin Mugar, 2016, #67, 29" x 24"(detail)</td></tr>
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This is a great advancement in the work. A great step forward to a new and bright horizon. There is no overstating the magnitude of this breakthrough. There is no overstating the significance and magnificence of this breakthrough in terms of the larger oeuvre of Martin Mugar's personal victory as an artist.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Martin Mugar, 2016, #67, 29" x 24"</td></tr>
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And as grand as this breakthrough is, the innocence and exuberance that has always been in his work is still there. The essential playfulness is still there, but even more so. The light is still there, but it is different. It is not as much the light from the sun, directly, but more the light that radiates from plants and flowers and fruit. A marvelous vibrancy. It is the great light that shines from within. Martin Mugar has found his way through his beautiful wall of light. He has found his way ashore again. He has found his way back to the garden.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Martin Mugar, 2016, #66, 27" x 24"</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Martin Mugar, 2016, #64, 50" x 41"</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Martin Mugar, 2016, #63, 24" x 22"</td></tr>
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<b>Addison Parks</b><br />
<b>Artdeal Magazine</b><br />
<b>Spring Hill, November, 2016</b><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Martin Mugar</td></tr>
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<br />Addison Parkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17761481663107145487noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20588196.post-75281197413578238242016-11-09T14:40:00.001-05:002016-11-14T09:22:19.513-05:00Douglas Abdell: Message in a Bottle<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Douglas Abdell, <i>Kayeau - Aekyad</i>, 1979, 19 x 9 x 4 inches</td></tr>
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Douglas Abdell's sculptures have always begged this one gnawing question: What's on the inside? This question has forever been behind the great symbolic and spiritual power of his work. What's inside? It is his question, and in an almost unknowable way, he makes it our question.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Douglas Abdell, <i style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 12px; text-align: left;">Qurefe Aekyad, </i><span style="background-color: #f9f9f9; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 12px; text-align: left;">1981</span></td></tr>
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Maybe Douglas Abdell never had any answers. Only questions. Or maybe he had the answers all along, but didn't think we were ready for them. Or maybe he wasn't ready for them. Who knows? It is worth noting that early on he invented a secret language to tell his story, something more Phoenician than Aramaic that probably raised more questions than it answered. He even almost dropped sculpture altogether at one point to realize his mission in paint and poetry. That is how large a role language and poetry have always played in his work. At that time he found himself more at home with the graffiti culture than working in bronze and steel. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Douglas Abdell, <i>Phaena Kraenq Phaena</i>, 1982, 18 x 18 inches</td></tr>
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Was he searching for his own truth, the truth, his own meaning, universal meaning, or just a place to feel at home, a place to belong, a place to express himself?<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Douglas Abdell, <i>Kraenk #25</i>, 1983, 46 x 14 1/2 inches</td></tr>
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Born in 1947 in Boston of Lebanese heritage on his father's side and Italian on his mother's, Abdell graduated from Syracuse University and joined the prominent Andrew Crispo Gallery in New York in the 1970s, and then moved there just at the exciting advent of the explosive New Wave, Neo-Expressionism and postmodernism art scene of the late 70s and early 80s. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Douglas Abdell, Bronze wall sculpture, 1972</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Douglas Abdell, catalog cover, 1978</td></tr>
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He relished the energy and dialogue as much as any artist in the thick of it all. His path was not unlike that of the great David Smith over thirty years earlier. He transitioned from cast bronze to welding, from warmer, more organic, touchable, intimate and more traditional modern sculpture to hard-edged, geometric, prickly, and cutting monolithic vessels/figures that synthesized and charged his vision. These were both soldiers first and last. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; text-align: start; white-space: pre-line;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;">Douglas Abdell, <i>Helae-Aekyad, </i>bronze<i>, </i>1977</span></span></td></tr>
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These sculptures were sent out into the world to carry his poetry, his message, to lead his quest.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Douglas Abdell</td></tr>
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In recent years Abdell has changed. His work has evolved from poet warrior to poet ambassador. He has opened up his closed vessel like a book. Recently almost literally. He works in stone(marble) to achieve something sublime. That is so important in all the ways we know and can imagine. Stone is hard. Hard to work and hard against time. It lasts. It is of this earth but is also spiritual in nature. It is as old as time. In it life is compacted over tens of thousands of years and longer. It is heavy not just in weight. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Douglas Abdell, <i>Código del Mediterráneo</i>, 2009 - 2010, mármol de Makael,<br /> Almeria, madera, cm. 57 x 144 x 90 </span></span></td></tr>
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Douglas Abdell has found a home on the coast of Spain. Malaga. He has embraced his rich Arabian and Mediterranean cultural heritage. His recent sculptures tell this story. They have an outside that houses and shelters but opens up and reveals an inside. The focus is now on that inside, and he is eager to tell us what that inside is. He is eager to share with us what that inside means. Douglas Abdell wants us to get his message in a bottle.<br />
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Addison Parks</div>
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Artdeal Magazine </div>
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Spring Hill</div>
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<a href="http://www.douglasabdell.com/"><span style="font-size: x-small;">www.douglasabdell.com</span></a></div>
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<a href="http://www.abdellmagua.com/"><span style="font-size: x-small;">www.abdellmagua.com</span></a></div>
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Addison Parkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17761481663107145487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20588196.post-27413296627235081072016-10-20T16:37:00.001-04:002016-11-04T12:53:52.617-04:00Lois Dodd: Endless Summer<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #888888; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; text-align: left;">“Magenta Touch-Me-Not,” oil on linen, 2007</span></td></tr>
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Looking at Lois Dodd's paintings it is easy to say that we all have a little Lois Dodd in us. I know I do. Call it morning sun. Call it The Sound of Music. Call it warm, green grass under bare feet, or call it a fresh breeze playing mischief with curtains and kites and skirts, or call it happy days. At 89, Lois Dodd has painted that forever, a sweet and gentle world at the end of a country road. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #888888; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; text-align: left;">Lois Dodd, “Self-Portait in Green Window” (1971),<br /> oil on linen, 53 1/2 x 36 inches</span></td></tr>
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Wouldn't it be nice. When we want that, need that, we have her work. It is a little like Giorgio Morandi. Through World Wars and revolutions we got still-lifes of jars and bottles and glasses, maybe some flowers, maybe a shift in palette. Something that didn't change in a changing world.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOWabxsEypzmcu88sb4iIcQYH5T8QioN0OoFfEMSrAhO1VW2ItSz6rhjtc2Y0oj1EfCTNbTF792ynWWxQzQ1BU00Wz5wjzvwW7JAoXeo2_tvDFI3p5YPoRjqLiLP3yQt3FRFLo9g/s1600/Lois_Dodd.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOWabxsEypzmcu88sb4iIcQYH5T8QioN0OoFfEMSrAhO1VW2ItSz6rhjtc2Y0oj1EfCTNbTF792ynWWxQzQ1BU00Wz5wjzvwW7JAoXeo2_tvDFI3p5YPoRjqLiLP3yQt3FRFLo9g/s400/Lois_Dodd.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;">Lois Dodd, Red Shirt and Window, 2013, oil on panel, 15 3/4 x 16 inches</span></span></td></tr>
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The same could be said of Lois Dodd. Through Elvis, walking on the moon, JFK, the 60s, the Vietnam War, the sexual revolution, bellbottoms, AIDS, Mr Gorbachev tear down this wall, personal computers, 911, the Iraq war, smart phones and so on, never mind the passing myriad of seismic art world movements, trends and isms, she has stayed the course. Plein air painting. It is actually a steel-eyed vision in the face of all that. Negativity is easy; she has a positive mission. A fierce choice. Lois Dodd is far from naive; she may paint in Maine, but she lives in New York City.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGSzbcLyvaFI5mLeyfBG879czfcyUmY6D5J3M9gVFfcwXbWBmA8MkdcbygTnKQO5bdylUVs7bKjyMvLlS5I2OPN9SxiHIsq5mX0YDAG6KxagBRQVr6gpsvNccdVnd-ijs7Vrgvsw/s1600/LD1207_CowandClouds.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="338" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGSzbcLyvaFI5mLeyfBG879czfcyUmY6D5J3M9gVFfcwXbWBmA8MkdcbygTnKQO5bdylUVs7bKjyMvLlS5I2OPN9SxiHIsq5mX0YDAG6KxagBRQVr6gpsvNccdVnd-ijs7Vrgvsw/s400/LD1207_CowandClouds.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #999999; font-family: , "times new roman" , "times" , "georgia" , serif; font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: 0.2800000011920929px;">Lois Dodd, “Cows and Clouds” (1961),<br /> oil on linen, 33 1/2 x 39 1/2 inches</span></td></tr>
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Some people could find this unwavering constancy of her work unnerving, even disturbing. Others might find it comforting. Her work really begs the question, but it is not a fair one. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #888888; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; text-align: left;">White Catastrophe, (1980)</span></td></tr>
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An artist is free. Free to follow their own path. See what they want to see. Celebrate what they want to celebrate. Share what they want to share. The world, art world or otherwise, can make of it what they will. Take it or leave it. They are free too.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #888888; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; text-align: left;">Red Poppies and House, 2004</span></td></tr>
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Lois Dodd gifts us a world apart that we cannot sustain. Most of us live a in different and more complicated world, a world where we cannot help ourselves. We want more. We need more. We are driven and distracted and scheduled and worried and afraid. She gives us simpler times. Simpler pleasures. Still but fleeting moments. Stilled. Care free moments where we can catch our breath. Feel our breath. Smile. Forget. Lose ourselves in sunshine. Trust in sunshine. Trust that life is good.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "verdana"; font-size: 10px;"><span style="color: #666666;">Lois Dodd, "Cow Parsnip in Bud," 2011.<br /> Oil on masonite. 20 1/8" × 13". </span></span></td></tr>
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Addison Parks<br />
Artdeal Magazine<br />
Spring Hill, October 2016<br />
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<u><a href="http://www.swarthmore.edu/list-gallery/lois-dodd-windows-and-reflections" target="_blank"><span style="color: #666666;">Lois Dodd: Windows and Reflections </span></a></u><br />
<span style="color: #666666;">List Gallery at Swarthmore College</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666;">November 3 - December 15, 2016</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><i><span style="color: #999999; font-size: x-small;">Lois Dodd is the 2016 Donald Jay Gordon Visiting Artist. Featuring a variety of paintings made between 1968 and 2007, this exhibition reflects Dodd’s life-long fascination with windows and similar structures that focus attention and kindle new ways of seeing. Lois Dodd: Windows and Reflections will be accompanied by a color catalog with an essay by Barry Schwabsky.</span></i></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #171717; font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 14px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 14px;"><span style="color: #666666;">Lois Dodd was born in Montclair, New Jersey in 1927. From 1945-1948 she attended The Cooper Union in New York. In 1952 she was one of five artists to establish the Tanager Gallery, where she exhibited until 1962. From 1971 to 1992, Dodd taught at Brooklyn College, and has, since 1980, served on the Board of Governors of the Skowhegan School of Painting and Sculpture. She is an elected member of the American Academy and Institute of Arts and Letters and National Academy of Design. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666;"><i>She is represented by the <a href="http://www.alexandregallery.com/lois-dodd" target="_blank">Alexandre Gallery</a> in NYC. Her next show will open Jan. 7, thru Feb. 25,'17</i></span>Addison Parkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17761481663107145487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20588196.post-7057419131315744732016-10-11T14:23:00.001-04:002016-10-12T10:00:24.403-04:00Sachiko Akiyama at Matter and Light<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b style="color: #666666;">Sachiko Akiyama</b><span style="color: #666666;">, </span><i style="color: #666666;">Between Dream and Memory</i><span style="color: #666666;">, 2004</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666;"> wood, paint, steel, resin, 20 x 19 x 64 inches</span></td></tr>
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<b><u>Sachiko Akiyama: Between Here and There</u></b><br />
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<span style="color: #666666;"><i>Sculpture and Paintings Curated by Nina Nielsen and John Baker</i></span></div>
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There is a stillness to Sachiko Akiyama's work that is also the pebble in the pond. Its quiet energy radiates outwards. It is powerful and passive at once. It is accessible and inaccessible at once. We are left to prowl or scale or contemplate its exterior. Its interior is another matter. The eye of the needle. The razor's edge. The puzzle box. The work is curious. We can only guess at what is before us. While this is the nature of most art, Sachiko Akiyama has managed to elevate the experience to a fine level that teeters up and down the spine of tension.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b style="color: #666666;">Sachiko Akiyama</b><span style="color: #666666;">, </span><i style="color: #666666;">Winter's Night</i><span style="color: #666666;">, 2016,</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666;"> wood, paint, steel, resin, 26 x 13 x 68 inches</span></td></tr>
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Her sculptures push out from inside their shells, like eggs that are about to hatch. Again, we can only marvel at the smooth beautifully carved and colored wooden figures. What stirs inside is anybody's guess, which is of course the pleasure of it. The narratives bound up in each piece, a held bird, a forest carried on a back, a sleeping form, tell the story of the artist and nature. It is a uniquely sad and calm and determined story of one. A broken-hearted one. One for all. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwkV8BDHNkj74X_TvENiToY73UYJu4h7GL7CjM0fAnennbqdJaBBSKOAzoDo0N-wTW52oaPE5b0GP8fQitVJx5vO8GImeY8AJzHCfWT8TYbR90yyewkFZsKff9EmiP_ofVqjvR5w/s1600/I-Remember-What-I-Did-Not-See.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwkV8BDHNkj74X_TvENiToY73UYJu4h7GL7CjM0fAnennbqdJaBBSKOAzoDo0N-wTW52oaPE5b0GP8fQitVJx5vO8GImeY8AJzHCfWT8TYbR90yyewkFZsKff9EmiP_ofVqjvR5w/s400/I-Remember-What-I-Did-Not-See.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b style="color: #666666;">Sachiko Akiyama</b><span style="color: #666666;">, </span><i style="color: #666666;">I Remember What I Did Not See</i><span style="color: #666666;">, 2010</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666;"> wood, paint, 59 x 29 x 15 inches</span></td></tr>
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Sachiko Akiyama is indeed a storyteller, and her sculptures cast a spell over us. A spell that like a net brings us into her magic tent. We are easily taken into her starry skies, her lapping waves, and calls in the night. Shooting stars abound. She brings us peace and goodwill. She brings us stillness. She brings us back to our senses and ourselves.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b style="color: #666666;">Sachiko Akiyama</b><span style="color: #666666;">, </span><i style="color: #666666;">Between Here and There</i><span style="color: #666666;">, 2016</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666;">polychromed wood, paint, 10.5 x 7 x 11.5 inches</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666;">In collaboration with painter </span><b style="color: #666666;">Rick Fox</b></td></tr>
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<b>Addison Parks<br />Artdeal Magazine </b><br />
<b>Spring Hill, October, 2016</b><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><span style="color: #666666;"><b>Sachiko Akiyama</b>, <i>The Blue of Distance</i>, 2016<br /> wood, paint, steel, 33 x 11 x 68 inches</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><span style="color: #666666;"><b>Sachiko Akiyama</b>, <i>In the Forest of Ghosts</i>, 2016<br /> wood, paint, paper, mixed media, 10.5 x 10 x 23.5 inches</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b style="color: #666666;">Sachiko Akiyama</b><span style="color: #666666;">, </span><i style="color: #666666;">Untitled</i><span style="color: #666666;">, 2016, acrylic</span><br style="color: #666666;" /><span style="color: #666666;"> two framed drawings, 6 x 5 & 9 x 6 inches</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #666666;"><b>Sachiko Akiyama</b>, <i>Untitled</i>, 2016, ink on paper</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDKktaAnfTJolDDjcRa5XsZr2XBi2ZptZv56mSrm2mLfY2C5XAmrcj1WTGPI4u3nbHNwd79iNfAIlFEXh6gQ8EJ2KgQRYkznBRw2HZ7p6f51J5mS86J5g0MIb7x6ttdyLfrRePjA/s1600/Untitled-Mountain-Collage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="287" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDKktaAnfTJolDDjcRa5XsZr2XBi2ZptZv56mSrm2mLfY2C5XAmrcj1WTGPI4u3nbHNwd79iNfAIlFEXh6gQ8EJ2KgQRYkznBRw2HZ7p6f51J5mS86J5g0MIb7x6ttdyLfrRePjA/s400/Untitled-Mountain-Collage.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><span style="color: #666666;"><b>Sachiko Akiyama</b>, <i>Untitled--Mountain Collage</i>,<br /> 2016, wood, paper, paint, acrylic, resin</span></td></tr>
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Sachiko Akiyama: Between Here and There<br />
September 16 - October 31, 2016<br />
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SCULPTURES AND PAINTINGS, CURATED BY NINA NIELSEN AND JOHN BAKER<br />
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<a href="http://www.matterlightfineart.com/" target="_blank">Matter and Light Fine Art</a><br />
63 Thayer St, Boston, MA 02118<br />
Phone: (857) 990-3931<br />
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<br />Addison Parkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17761481663107145487noreply@blogger.com2