HANS HOFMANN: How It's Done!

"The significance of a work of art is determined then by the quality of its growth." Hans Hofmann

Hans Hofmann, Self-Portrait, 1902

Hans Hofmann understood this; an artist wears many hats. Many many hats. If paintings were made like films are these days, then each of these hats would have a title, like director, cinematographer, editor, casting director, costume design, sound editor, etc. A painter does all of these things. Maybe Rubens didn't, and maybe not Sol LeWitt, but Hans Hofmann and everybody else has made it part of the job.

Hans Hofmann, The Lark, 1960

The job of director vs cinematographer vs editor is particularly interesting. David Lean comes to mind as one of the few filmakers who found it impossible to separate these jobs. Hans Hofmann, the director, preached push and pull. Hans Hofmann the cinematographer and editor had to put that into practice. They had to walk the fine line between image and painting. They had to decide when one dictated the outcome over the other. Balance and timing.







Timing and balance. When did the image decide how the paint would lie? Push or pull? Flat, side by side, out in front, or in the back. When was it about the paint? When was it about the picture? The composition? The visual narrative? When was it important to maintain the mission? When were all bets off because only one thing mattered: the success and survival of the painting at hand?







Ultimately every painter knows this one rule above all others! Yes, the one rule above all, that the painting should fly! Or float! Or actualize! Become! Transform! Ascend! Transcend! Etc. Etc. Etc.

Hans Hofmann, Golden Autumn

AND YET, the painting still has to be true. Philosophically true. There is no success at the price of philosophical truth. Many a "successful" painting has been scraped down, overpainted or trashed because it tried to slip by as successful without being true. Therein lies the rub. And that is the director's job.







So when we look at Hans Hofmann's work we always somehow get one of his most famous hats: the teacher. We get a first hand tutorial on how it is done. No tricks, nothing up the sleeves, all out in front for all to see: yes, pay close attention, this is how a painting is made! This is how it is done!








Addison Parks
Spring Hill, 2016

Hans Hofman, High Summer, 1961

Hans Hofmann, Song of the Nightingale

CAROL HEFT; Work on Paper at the Blue Mountain Gallery

SMOKE on the WATER

Carol Heft is a gifted artist. What we get in her work is the tip of the iceberg. Smoke on the water. Somewhere there are flares and fire; somewhere, someplace gets burned to the ground. We might sense that, but completely unconsciously. Instead we luxuriate in the smoke; we see across the water.

Carol Heft, Untitled, 2016, on paper, 18x24",
collage w/ watercolor, gouache, charcoal, pencil

For 40 plus years Carol Heft has contemplated this place in painting. Cy Twombly may have opened the door, but Carol Heft was already there. Who knows how? It was a dream. On the water. 

Carol Heft, Untitled, 2016, on paper, 18x24",
collage w/ watercolor, gouache, charcoal, pencil

I watched her contemplating this dream through the end of a cigarette in our studio on Benefit Street at RISD. It was the shiny swell of the late 70s, and we were just battered art students with a headful of dreams. A few years later I read the scrawls on her studio walls on the Bowery on New York's Lower Eastside. We were at the bottom of the heap but we were in it, up to our eyeballs, and that was all that mattered. So much has changed since then, but that remains true.

Carol Heft, Untitled, 2016, on paper, 18x24",
collage w/ watercolor, gouache, charcoal, pencil

Back at the very beginning, however, it was drawing and then printmaking that helped Carol Heft etch out the faint outlines of what could be. That was the power and magic of suggestion at the beginning. The raw and contemplative that would define her work forever. Poetry was at the heart of it. Poetry that could make out a golden kingdom in a wisp of smoke, when prose was just signage on the New Jersey Turnpike. Poetry that could sink a well that gushed to the heavens, when prose would just let you down. Prose that could only get you close, but never there. Poetry that could do it all and carry you to the top, when prose just ended up proving that more was sadly less.

Carol Heft, Untitled, 2016, on paper, 18x24",
collage w/ watercolor, gouache, charcoal, pencil

But there is so much more. Carol Heft is so much more. What you see is not what you get. At first. Carol Heft's depth, her raw and contemplative power, is actually matched by a surprise, by her sense of humor. Her wisecracking sense of humor. Her troublemaking, mischievous, irreverant sense of humor. It follows her around like a nuisance, like a terrier. Yipping. It can spoil her so serious and so sincere moments. The little devil that keeps those heavens on their toes. The little devil that keeps it real.

Carol Heft, Untitled, 2016, on paper, 18x24",
collage w/ watercolor, gouache, charcoal, pencil

So when her work seems too touchy feely, too heartfelt to believe, look around. Something is at play. Somewhere there is a giggle. Somewhere there is a guffaw! As she scratches her way to heaven, humor is the tail to her kite. As she carves up the wind, something else is afoot. Something else lurks. Some true delight curled inside the smoke. 

Carol Heft, Untitled, 2016, on paper, 18x24",
collage w/ watercolor, gouache, charcoal, pencil

Carol Heft is a fabulous painter, and maybe you get that, but the key to her magic, to her exuberance, is her fabulous sense of humor. Those of us who have been within that blast radius, doubled over by it, consider ourselves lucky indeed, and cherish the true radiance and value of her work.

Addison Parks

Carol Heft: Work on Paper

THE BLUE MOUNTAIN GALLERY

530 West 25th Street  4th Floor, New York, NY 10001 tel: 646.486.4730, infor@bluemountaingallery.org

The Blue Mountain Gallery is pleased to announce an exhibition of work by Carol Heft from March 1 – 26, 2016.  The exhibition will include collage, drawing, painting, digital images, and constructions in a variety of materials. Ms. Heft’s work is inspired by an exploratory approach to materials, and the interchange of two and three dimensional space on flat surfaces. Her new work combines physical and illusionary layers of space populated by imaginative formal combinations. Careful attention to composition born of random arrangements are juxtaposed in compelling designs.

There will be a concert and gallery talk on March 26, Saturday, from 2:00 – 4:00  at the gallery performed by The Bill Warfield Hell’s Kitchen Funk Orchestra.

Born in 1954, Carol Heft studied painting with Robert Brackman, National Academician, from the age of 12 – 16.  She then attended the Rhode Island School of Design where she studied with Lisa Chase, Leland Bell, Judy Pfaff, and other visiting artists and instructors.  After graduating in 1976, Ms. Heft moved to New York City, where she currently lives and works.  Carol Heft teaches drawing, painting, 2 dimensional design, and technical drawing at Muhlenberg College, and Cedar Crest College, in Allentown PA, and St. Joseph’s College in Brooklyn, NY.  Contact Marcia Clark at the gallery for further information

CORN/UNICORN: Addison Parks @ Nielsen @ Bow Street Annex

Addison Parks @ Nielsen @ Bow Street Annex Installation

It sounds corny, but artists have a lot of nerve. They have to. Art takes nerve. It has been suggested by at least one writer that I essentially steal a painting, that after muddling my way through, at the last second I heave up a Hail Mary and do some "how did he do that" Johnny Football magic to win the game. The suggestion is that I do not play fair, the right way, earning my victory through some consistent hard work ethic... that I am not Yankee, reaping and sowing, plodding and sweating, calculating and executing my way to my intended goal, to a sportsmanlike victory. That I cheat. Some nerve.

Addison Parks @ Nielsen @ Bow Street Annex Installation

This is in part true. True because I do not believe that art is something that you can calculate, measure, size up, scheme, formulate, or get to by the numbers. Farming is wonderful, but art is not like farming. Art is about balance and it is also about surprise. A field of corn is about hard work, taking care of business, determination, and patience, as much as nature is the grandest miracle, day in and day out.

Addison Parks @ Nielsen @ Bow Street Annex Installation

I don't believe art is anything like that, you cannot tame it, domesticate it, or harness it for a purpose. This is the unspoken law of art. So unspoken that many choose to ignore it altogether, and at great cost. And deep down every artist knows this. Art takes nerve. It is like some utterly elusive unicorn that you might scour the earth to find, and when you think you have, you put out some food for it and wait and hope that it makes a brief appearance, that you may bask in its radiance, but you can't go back again to the same place to find it, you can't trick it, you can't try to capture it and hold it, or surely you will scare it off or kill it. It will disappear or die. Art is above all a free spirit.

For thousands of years people with power have tried to say that it is "here," but it just eludes them and pops up over there. In this regard it is no different from love. It cannot be forced.

Addison Parks @ Nielsen @ Bow Street Annex Installation

This should speak for how I feel about a painting. It is not something you start and put in the work and finish and then you are done. Next. People have asked me how long one of my paintings takes. My answer is always the same: it takes as long as it takes, no more, no less. In this a painting is like a mountain, if you want to get to the top, it decides how long and how high you have to climb.

Addison Parks @ Nielsen @ Bow Street Annex Installation

Addison Parks @ Nielsen @ Bow Street Annex Installation

But there is this other unspoken law: balance. And here is where the idea that I steal a painting is false. Balance is everything. Balance and then consciousness. Above all consciousness. Consciousness and becoming. A painting cannot helicopter its way to the top of the mountain by being exceptional in one regard, it can't be a good likeness as a portrait and sneak in as a good painting. There are a billion portraits, but what sets a Rembrandt apart is balance: it is everything else too, and no one thing in particular; it is awesome in the abstract for example. Big picture and small, broad strokes and detail. Color and value. Object and space, figure and ground, open and closed, positive and negative. And for all of this Rembrandt's portraits are often rewarded with an appearance by the unicorn.

Addison Parks @ Nielsen @ Bow Street Annex Installation

So yes, I worship and respect the unicorn. The ah! The surprise. The revelation. Never the same. Never predictable. Never calulated. The everlasting kingdom of hope. And yes, there is glory there, just not the kind you think, not a ticker-taped parade, but the glory of a sunrise. Morning glory. It is not the land of tried and true. You can't retrace your steps or follow the beaten path. Every day you have to start out anew. You have to believe. You have to hope. And as inconvenient as it might seem, you have to discover everything all over again.

Addison Parks @ Nielsen @ Bow Street Annex Installation

Recent Paintings of Addison Parks, 2014-2015 this November 2015 thru January 2016     NIELSEN GALLERY

Organized and curated by Nina Nielsen and John Baker.

To see the exhibition please visit: www.nielsengallery.com

ADDISON PARKS @ NIELSEN GALLERY

Wood, 2015, oil on canvas, 12 x 16 inches

Addison Parks / Recent Paintings  2014-2015

Painting is very often like going through door number three; you just don't know what you'll find. The reason I keep painting, keep going back, keep going through door number three, is that more often than not, something is waiting. I think our ego self declares something along the lines that "I made something happen," but deep down we know we just got lucky, again. We're just fishing, and if we are lucky, we get something on the line.

Trunk, 2015, oil on linen, 24 x 18 inches

I won't lie, these paintings aren't big fish. Then again, I am not big fish fishing. Not these days. After over 50 years of painting large, I am really just interested in anything the sea, or river, or lake, or ocean, will give me. I have taken stabs at making a decent small painting from time to time, but my natural inclination and disposition since I was a boy was to paint larger than life, to feel my brush strokes travel and explore the arc and extent of my reach. Small paintings are compressed. More in the wrist. It is all good.

Love's Spine, 2015, gouache on linen, 16 x 12 inches

Painting is just dreaming with your eyes wide open. Did Diego Rivera say that? Well, I know what he means. The very act of painting has always been a close companion to daydreaming for me. Plain old-fashioned musing. And the paintings in this show are maybe more of that than I have done in some time. I really can't explain them or account for them. I don't even know what to think of them, so I certainly cannot hold it against anyone for feeling the same way.

Hillside, 2015, oil on canvas, 11 x 14 inches

There is a little Paul Klee at play in Hillside. He can be a mentor for small paintings. Play is vital. The tree-figure form is rather animated. Can be person, place or thing. Animal or vegetable. Its red paint becomes the light in the canvas. I starting using the tree-figure mark in a mural three or four years ago to organize some otherwise random brushstrokes (although its origin is without question totally and absolutely rooted in my wooden sculptures of the last fifteen plus years). These marks from the mural seemed to be literally marking time at first. Four strokes and a cancellation to make the numeral five. Small family of five. Father of four. But then tree. Especially pines. Pines that dot the 360 degrees of woods that surround my studio and home. They jumped from my sculptures and out of my mural and into my paintings last Winter, and lasted through early Spring. Where they go from here I have no idea. How strong they are remains to be seen.

Flap, 2015, gouache and oil on linen, 18 x 24 inches

I am so grateful to Nina Nielsen and John Baker for just giving me this show, but I owe an added debt to Nina for daring me not to paint in a series. She didn't say it so much, not directly anyway, as show me by her fine example.

A number of these paintings are unmoored as a result, just floating around out there, untethered from a group, a series, an alliance, a device, a hook, a common theme. It makes them random. Isolated. Alone. Irreplaceable. Undisplacible. Relatively unique in that they are single.

Becco's Ride, 2015, gouache on linen, 16 x 12 inches

I can like that. It is like swimming way out in the ocean by yourself at night. Scary, but exhilarating and somehow liberating.  These small gouaches and oils are rooted in my experience, and many of them spring from the rather commonplace and strangely familiar. But they make an appearance on the canvas, and I try to do right by them, honor them, give them a good life.

Light Sail, 2015, gouache on linen, 16 x 12 inches

I use color and shape and mark and line and texture and contrast and signs and arrows and metaphor, etc., to give wings and heart and fire and brains to my paintings, to bring them to life, to set their sails to the wind, and cast them out to sea. A painting like Light Sail takes me back. Back to 1960, the Winged Victory of Samothrace, to the morning boat from Venice to Pireaus, to Mykonos, to white light and white stone, to blue sky and blue water, to windmills, to the lions at Delos. I can feel the stiff, salty breeze.


When I see my old paintings, they tell me so much, almost too much, of what I was thinking at that time, where I was, how I was, up or down, in or out, happy, challenged, heartbroken, or on top of the world. They tell me what inspired me, what called me, what drove me; in short, what I cared about. They also tell me what I was struggling with or opposing or ignoring at my peril. I see them and a little voice says, oh, that was what was going on. I feel exposed by them sometimes, or thankful to them for bringing back a happy memory about something or someone from long ago. They are so personal that way. Vessels. Filled with light and dark, yearning and passion, daring and delight, foolishness and anticipation,  rawness and struggle, wonder and sorrow, and the occasional glimpse of the breathtaking, the sublime, if fortune smiles on me. All served up in triumph and celebration.

Cathy's Turn, 2015,  gouache and oil on linen, 16 x 12 inches

Quite often I have to resist the urge of trying to use a painting I like as a stepping stone to another painting, as much as it might tempt me, as much as it might yield. You know, keep painting the same painting until I get it right; mine it until there is no ore left. Instead, sometimes I try just letting one painting tell its story, give what it may, get it right the first time. And then start again. The complete tabula rasa. Back to the bottom of the hill, back to the beginning. A new day! Door number three!

Plot Line, 2015, gouache on linen, 16 x 12 inches

It is worth noting that there are paintings which look outward and paintings which look inward, and some that manage neither and some that achieve both. At times I was all about that painting that looks outwardly. Painting that may aim inward but speaks outwardly. On and off I have gone the other route, speaking inwardly about things both outward and inward. Most of the time this has happened in small paintings, just not all small paintings. Still, it is my hope that my small paintings will set a trap, land a fish, maybe even create a nice fishbowl worthy of a momentary gaze.

Charles Seliger was a painter who spoke inwardly, but about things both large and small. In his last judgment, Michelangelo spoke inwardly and outwardly. A rare feat. Velasquez, yes. Rembrandt, yes.  Pollock could do it. So could de Kooning. So could Klimt. Joan Mitchell. Porfirio DiDonna. Joan Snyder. Milton Resnick certainly made it his end all, be all.

Not of This World(Pine), 2015, oil on canvas, 14 x 11 inches

Outwardly is more common because it is the nature of painting to be an outward expression.

Fall, 2015, oil on canvas, 11 x 14 inches

Inwardly is different. Think Advent calendar. Think nesting. Eddies. Secrets. Buried treasure. Wormholes. Cupped hands. The beachcomber's prize.

Seventh Samurai, 2015, oil on linen, 24 x 18 inches

Charles Seliger delighted in buried treasures in his paintings. We are meant to mine them. The Michael Rosenfeld Gallery once provided the viewers with magnifying glasses to better guide our way. Resnick's crusty masterpieces of the late 70s and early 80s were rock faces to be scaled by comparison. Bring a pickaxe! Helen Frankenthaler was completely expansive but on the inside. Richard Tuttle is nothing if not inward. It is very difficult to get to his work outwardly, although he spoke about the process as though it were a circle, you could get to one or the other depending on which way you went, maybe ultimately getting to the same place in the end. That would seem almost strangely inevitable and even unavoidable. From ashes to ashes, dust to dust. 

Heaven's Gate, 2015, oil on canvas, 14 x 11 inches

Leon Polk Smith, like Frankenthaler, appears totally outward and yet speaks to what is profoundly and poetically and ineffably inward. 

My Heart is by the Window, 2014, oil on linen, 12 x 9 inches

Forrest Bess's work is completely inward and yet makes a powerful outward impression. It would seem to suggest that yes, there is more than one way to get there. The artist that harnesses both, like a Rothko, and still delivers, sets us down a super highway. Still, in my experience, all roads do indeed lead to Rome(home), and I am so grateful for a lifetime of painting that has helped show me the way, so grateful for all the love and art(fish, large and small) that shined its light on me.

ADDISON PARKS

SPRING HILL, DEC. 2015

Addison Parks @ Nielsen Gallery @ Bow Street Annex

Recent Paintings of Addison Parks, 2014-2015 this November 2015 thru January 2016     NIELSEN GALLERY

To see the exhibition please visit: www.nielsengallery.com

I would like to thank John Baker and Nina Nielsen for putting up this exhibition. For their wild generosity and thoughtfulness. John Baker for his unfailingly concise insight. I would also like to thank my family for being the beating heart of every one of these paintings. Thank you all.

To see more work please visit addisonparks.com

Artist Notes: Kenn Speiser

I just finished installing a sculpture commission for the I-195 Redevelopment District in Providence, Rhode Island.

The two steel pieces titled “Mother & Child” are located in downtown Providence marked on the enclosed map with a magenta dot.






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LEON POLK SMITH AT WASHBURN: A Love Affair with Life / A Portrait of the 1960s

Leon Polk Smith, CORRESPONDENCE VIOLET BLACK, 1966, oil on canvas, 39 x 51 1/2 in.

Leon Polk Smith(1906-1996) had this uncanny gift of tapping into both time and timelessness. If this was calculated, he never said. But if you see the current show(Leon Polk Smith: Paintings and Collages from the 1960s) at the Washburn Gallery in New York, it hits you right between the eyes.

Smith's hard edge, cutting edge, razor sharp ability to capture both the moment and that which is eternal in art sets him apart. It speaks to the power at the core of both him and his work. It was a quality that never ceased to amaze those who knew him. It was a quality that stunned everyone who experienced his work.

Leon Polk Smith, CORRESPONDENCE BLACK YELLOW, 1963, oil on canvas, 77 x 52 in.

The result is painting that is at once startlingly fresh and exuberant, and thoroughly tempered and tough as oak. This was Leon Polk Smith. This was an artist who captured poetry as ephemeral and heartbreaking as a rose petal and transformed that into a blazing skyscraper. Take shock and awe and add tenderness and yearning and the morning sun.

Leon Polk Smith's story says it all. Born and raised among the Choctaw and Chickasaw tribes on the wide open Oklahoma plains before it was a state, and then reborn at a mature age by the exploding Modernity of New York City in the first half of the 20th Century.

Leon Polk Smith, VIOLET SCARLET, 1965, oil on canvas, 87 x 41 in.

That Smith thoroughly anticipated and pioneered minimalism and influenced generations of artists doesn't begin to tell the story. Not one of the countless and albeit formidable artists to stand on his shoulders from Agnes Martin, Ellsworth Kelly and Ad Reinhardt to Richard Serra, Peter Halley and Bill Thompson, ever nailed the vicissitudes and zeitgeist of their time quite like Smith. Not surprisingly perhaps the only other artist who did was the only influence Smith ever conceded: Mondrian.

Looking at the works in this show is like seeing color coded flashcards of the Sixties. Everyone elicits a time, a place, a sound, a taste. Rorschach on steroids. Colors and shapes picking up and spitting out the character, flavor, fashion, music and spirit of the times!

Leon Polk Smith, WHITE YELLOW DEEP, 1964, oil on canvas, 52 x 42 in.

Smith was a big fan of graffiti art in the late 70s and early 80s. It should come as little surprise. There is something of the street poet in his work. Maybe more than something. These paintings are the sights and sounds of the 60s in a visual haiku. They flower. They fly off the canvas. The show might well have been titled what it is: LEON POLK SMITH: A Love Affair with Life / A Portrait of the 1960s.

Addison Parks
Spring Hill

Washburn Gallery Installation; Leon Polk Smith: Paintings and Collages from the 1960s

LEON POLK SMITH
Paintings and Collages from the 1960s

September 10 - October 31, 2015

WASHBURN GALLERY  20 West 57th Street, New York, New York 10019 T (212) 397-6780 F (212) 397-4853





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IT IS ART

If I think about what art means to me, what comes to mind is that it is a vision. That is what has always struck me when I have encountered what I now think of as art; something that appears to be a vision. The size and medium are of little consequence; it is the experience of this vision that moves me.

I would also have to say that light plays a role in this experience, but it is predominantly an inner light, something which radiates, shines through the work.


When I was very young and came across a vision, I just knew that I had had an experience, and didn't think of it as art. One of my first experiences of this sort was The Winged Victory of Samothrace in the Louvre at the age of seven.

This is not an uncommon response to one of the most commanding and inspiring sculptures in the world. Nonetheless I too was floored by it.

Later I came to recognize when something like this happened, and I felt excited by it, like a rush of adrenaline, like being shot out of a cannon, it came to mean something to me, and that something took the name "Art." Even as a very young artist this experience of a vision was what I was looking for, instead of a signature, a style, a brand, or a fashionable, cutting edge, trendsetting invention I could call my own. Something with light, with radiance, with power.

This vision I am talking about is an individual and unique experience, not some broad big picture kind of vision, like the way people talk about someone with a "vision." No, I am talking about an isolated experience that is almost always unexpected, that we happen upon or happens to us.

We scour galleries and museums in hopes of finding or having this experience the way we might go to a casino to hit the jackpot or go to a bar or club hoping to fall in love. For lack of a better description, a better word, this vision experience is what I think of as an aesthetic experience.

This sense of vision has always guided me. It is absolutely my very personal journey; it is absolutely subjective. It is not intellectual. It is not the result of contemplation or analysis or systematic observation or judgment. It is something transcendent. It is art.


Addison Parks
Spring Hill


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DRAWING: Lesson One

I retired from teaching 20 years ago to raise a family and paint. When I thought about going back to teaching now that my children are grown and off to college, these were my first thoughts:

Paul Klee

It starts with a blank sheet of paper. A beautiful blank sheet of paper. Not all drawing is done on paper, and the surface is not always blank, but you get the idea. That blank sheet of paper is perfect. Pure. Whatever happens there has a long way to go to improve on that. Especially over time. Over time we tire of so much. A blank sheet of paper on the other hand is always welcome.




So what can we bring to that space that we draw on? Our imagination? Our perception? Our talent? Our will? Our industry? Our inspiration? Our feelings? All or none of that. What else?

Van Gogh

Our visions? Our joys? Our values? Our beliefs? Our fears?

Cy Twombly

Drawing has the power to convey all that, for each of us and all of us.



Drawing can be a record, a document, a memory, a brainstorm, an experiment, a doodle, an homage, an inquiry, a fantasy, a dream, a dare!

Gerhard Richter

We can approach the drawing in terms of line, or space, literally, or suggestively. We can be faithful, or we can be fickle. We can draw what we feel like, or we can draw what needs to be drawn. We can discover the drawing through the act of doing, or map our way. We can dive in, or ease our way slowly.

Claude Monet

Light may very well be our guide, sifting through a thousand shades of gray. Gesture may suit us better, allowing suggestion to unleash with imagination and mystery what plodding and scheming never dreamed of. We can mine the unconscious. We can speak in code, shrouding our depths in abstraction, inviting pure form to utter what we have no words for. Or we can rely on our craft and skill to dutifully deliver an honest and earnest labor of love.

Piet Mondrian

Drawing can do all this and more. It can be visual thinking. It can celebrate the world around us. It can comment on social justice. It can poke fun when things get too serious. It can arouse our passions. It can overwhelm us with beauty. It can surprise us with perspectives we never dreamed of and worlds we never thought possible. It can move us to action, or emotion. It can inspire us to aspire, or even to change. It can light our fire, or light our way. It can show us absolutely anything.

So let's get started!

Addison Parks, 2007

Addison Parks
Spring Hill


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