The Human Elements
Form, shape, line, color, value, light and shadow, volume, composition, proportion, anatomy . . . and the human condition. (That last one is a doozy!) All of these are elements of visual art. Depending on their chosen genre, some artists are only required to deal with a few of those elements, while dismissing the others and the challenges that come with them. Still life artists and landscape painters, for example, need not concern themselves with human anatomy. Light, color, and composition yes. Sculptors deal intensively with volume, form, and human anatomy, but not color and values. Abstract expressionists are pros at composition and color, but have no issues with light and shadow. Installation artists? Well, I don’t really know what to say about them except that even I can crumple up pieces of aluminum foil and stack them five feet high in a gallery corner 
Yes, I actually saw that once.
Only figurative artists – specifically, representational figurative painters – have to tackle ALL of the elements listed above, as each one is a crucial aspect of their work. No exceptions. These artists are expected to meet the most difficult demands, and they know it. And I know from firsthand experience that they do not take lightly their chosen subject, the most complex and compelling of all - humanity.
I work and move among figurative artists, for they are the ones who employ and depend on life models. From everything I’ve seen, I can state unequivocally that they toil and agonize over their work. In the face of countless frustrations, they bravely solider on, driven to express the beauty, flaws, strengths, weaknesses, pain and joy, fears and failures, triumphs and successes, isolation, community, yearnings and impulses of their fellow human beings. They seek to explore what connects us to each other, the common bonds we share, and portray their life subjects with authenticity, empathy, and respect. It’s a tall order, but a worthy one.
Representational figurative artists are many things. Storytellers, philosophers, psychologists, poets, dreamers and cynics, idealists and intellectuals, diarists and narrators. They confront the human condition, in all its existential angst and insecurity. They grapple with both the physical and the metaphysical, the tangible and the intangible, the outside and the inside.
He has been called the “foremost figurative artist of his generation”. He is Steven Assael, and he has risen, deservedly so, to the top of the heap in New York’s figurative art scene. He currently has a show at Forum Gallery (see Events and News page), and I’ll be checking it out this week. In this wonderfully thoughtful and intimate video, Steven discusses his work, his inspiration, and communicates the mission of figurative art far better than me. Beyond his obviously gifted technical skills, Assael’s work achieves astonishing depth and sensitivity – a palpable emotional undercurrent – all of which perfectly illustrate the figurative art aspiration. Just look into the eyes of his model subjects. The vulnerability, restlessness, and mortality of their existence will prompt stirring in your soul.
One of the great voices of contemporary figurative art, this is Steven Assael, offering insights and personal reflections. I enjoyed this video a lot, and I think you will too.
Message to Steven, in the remote chance that he sees this post: I, too, grew up in New York, and we didn’t have video games either! Ah, we city kids didn’t need them. My mother also took me to the Met and the Modern. So I’d say your childhood in our city’s great museums, and drawing at every opportunity with pencil in hand, was time much better spent. Clearly it worked out well for you! And not too bad for me either 
Toasting 200!
Cheers, everyone! And welcome to Museworthy’s 200th post!! What a trip it’s been
So after 200 posts of topics ranging from art modeling, art history, my personal ramblings, cat pictures, New York stories, and a few miscellaneous, who comes in the leader of the pack? :drumroll: Appropriately, one of the great muses I’m happy to say. Yes, the number one Museworthy post is the beautiful and tragic Jeanne Hebuterne. Coming in a close second is Michelangelo and his gender issues. And rounding out the top three is my discussion about art models and their abdominals.
Although I have nothing spectacular to commemorate this blogging milestone, I can unveil a spanking new sidebar facelift. Check it out! Can you dig it? A little neater and more organized, with more categories to reflect broader interests (mine, and hopefully some of yours). I think it’s easier for everyone to navigate, and easier for me as well. So enjoy, friends!
I want to express my sincerest thanks to all my loyal readers who visit Museworthy so regularly. You have truly made this blog what it is. And shame on me for having nothing better to offer you right now except an out-of-focus, stupid selfshot I took in the mirror of the models’ bathroom at FIT. Charming. I was going to crop out the ugly toilet in the background, but I decided to leave it in, just to disabuse you of any false illusions that an artist’s model’s life is a glamorous one
I love you all so much. Here’s one of my favorite songs by Bob Dylan.
Hugs and kisses . . .
Claudia
A Little Lift From Leonardo
There are some developments in the School of Visual Arts unrest. I’ve been privy to some very distressing information that I will share in due time, I promise. But for now, if it’s all right with everyone, I’d like to take a temporary breather from this rather unpleasant situation. From a personal standpoint, avoiding the topic aids me in my “beast battle”. Trying not to get mentally bogged down in worries and tension, you see. From a blogging standpoint, avoiding it prevents Museworthy from morphing into a grievance parade, beset with negativity. Instead, my beloved blog can reclaim its sensitive soul and return to its primary purpose – it’s joy, its inspiration, its very reason for being – ART.
Let’s do a little da Vinci, shall we? After a miserable few days of suffering due to the destructive actions of a small, spiteful, myopic, mean-spirited person of no accomplishment, I thought it was only fitting to showcase an individual who is the complete opposite. In other words, a productive, forward-thinking person, a brilliant visionary, an innovator, a person of staggering intellectual and artistic gifts, a person with a profound sense of humanity, compassion, and love for his fellow man. A person who sought to promote positive change in the world. Yay for Leonardo!
According to Giorgio Vasari, Leonardo da Vinci was a man of “outstanding physical beauty”, “infinite grace”, “great strength and generosity”, “regal spirit and tremendous breadth of mind”. (Hmm . . . sounds just like the new model coordinator at SVA . . . NOT!!!)
Check out this exquisite portrait drawing by Leonardo. It’s called La Scapigliata. When I looked up the translation, I discovered that it means “disheveled hair”. Love it! However, with all due respect to the great Leonardo and his pretty model, I am the queen of disheveled hair. That’s right. Me! The main mophead. The top in tousled tresses. If da Vinci considered this to be “disheveled” hair, imagine what he would have done with my windswept shag!
Like so much of the art from the 15th and 16th centuries, many details are unknown. Was this a preliminary sketch for a painting? If so, which one? And who was model? Speculations abound, but we’ll never know for sure. There is even some dispute over this drawing’s attribution to Leonardo. Here on Museworthy, I say we give it to the guy. I’m not an art history cop. Just an admirer
While there are countless reasons to respect and admire the great Leonardo da Vinci, one of my personal favorites was his vegetarianism. His love of animals was intrinsic to both his character and his overall view of the world. Da Vinci believed deeply that humans share the earth with our “fellow mortals” and ethically disapproved of any suffering inflicted upon them at human hands. So throughout his 67 years he rejected the consumption of all animal flesh. Vasari even told of how da Vinci would purchase caged birds for sale, only to set them free in the countryside, to give them back their liberty, to allow them their natural right to live their lives on their own terms. And isn’t that all any of us wants?
Weathering the Storm
Grrr . . . grrr . . . grrr . . . blah, blah, blah . . . dammit . . . dammit. Sad -> angry -> worried -> sad again . . . sad, sad, sad . . . pissed off . . . seething -> crying -> pacing -> petting cats . . . awwww Animal therapy.
That person. That toxic, heinous person, and her rude, dishonest, bungling, inept, insensitive behavior . . . insults me. Screeches at me. Talks down to me. Has the audacity to slander my professionalism . . . my ART MODELING . . . the thing I love . . . the thing for which I have the greatest passion, the very thing that inspired me to start a BLOG for heaven’s sake! That person . . . that . . . insert the dreaded “C” word -> my mother will get mad if I type it. (The “person” has a website too by the way. It’s about shoes. Yes . . . shoes. :listens while everybody laughs:)
I had eight months. EIGHT EXCELLENT MONTHS with no sign of “the beast”. I’ve been immensely proud of these eight months. I battle it on my own, with nothing but supplements, diet, meditation, and the unconditional love of family and friends. And now the actions of this horrible person have triggered anxiety in my head. For those of us who suffer from the beast, any measure of anxiety -especially a hard-hitting one like this – is a very, very precarious matter. Not funny. Let’s just say I’m having a crummy day. If I allow this to slip into an “episode”, then I am in deep shit. And my triumphant eight month record will be ruined. My goal was to stretch it into a full year.
But the beast is only lurking for now, and I’m doing everything in my power to keep him at bay. Went for a drive earlier which was nice. Home now, on the computer (obviously!). Tinkering around on my Delicious page sorting through my bookmarks. Going to log off soon, light some candles, put on a Ravi Shankar CD, and ease into some meditative yoga. I have a couple of dear friends on my mind – people I love – whose faces, voices, and precious spirits are keeping me company, unbeknownst to them
Art for this occasion? Of course. And I don’t think I have to spell out the symbolism. It’s pretty self-explanatory. By Pablo Picasso, this is Blue Nude from 1902:
Upheaval
I will have to exert a great deal of self-control writing this post. My normally joyful, witty, free-flowing verbal style has to be reined in (moderately at least) to avoid going off on a horrible rant. I’ll try, but I can’t guarantee I’ll be successful. Ranting is not generally in my nature. Right now, I am angry and disappointed and stunned. Throw in a little financial panic and we’ve pretty much summed up my current mental state. So I’ll try to do this as soberly as I can without minimizing my natural emotions. I am human, after all.
I have incurred yet another bruise from art modeling. This one, however, is not from posing on a platform, not some black-and-blue mark on my leg. How I wish that were the case. No this one is from the business. This unpredictable, volatile, lawless, absurd art modeling business that, right now, I HATE with a passion.
One of the more dangerous and destructive situations in life is when a petty, small-minded, incompetent person finds their way into a position of authority. That has trouble written all over it. And that’s exactly what has happened at the Model Registry at the School of Visual Arts, a place I’ve worked steadily and happily for three years. The previous model coordinator was an exceptional man. Intelligent, efficient, fair, a true gentleman and professional in every way. He is a man of tremendous people skills and managerial talent. Unfortunately, he left the Model Registry in December, and his replacement is a silly, spiteful, immature person who has arbitrarily decided to alienate certain models and essentially get rid of us. Why? Because she CAN. Because she feels like it. Because, as a limited person, it’s the only strategy she knows as a way to distinguish herself and make her mark. Of course most people try to make their mark by doing something productive and positive, by engendering good morale and enthusiasm. Not this person. This person knows only how to “break down” rather than “build up”. She’s decided that her professional statement will be a contrarian one, a gratuitous ego-driven one, one born out of antipathy and ill-will. I am among the ostracized group of art models, I’m sorry to say. In other words, I no longer work at the School of Visual Arts. I’m dumbfounded. Absolutely dumfounded.
I won’t recount the horrible phone conversation I had with this person earlier other than to say that I can’t recall being spoken to in such a rude, cold, and disrespectful manner. Then she LIED. Fabricated and/or exaggerated merely as a pretext to stop using me. See, she needs this to be MY fault, so she can justify her actions. If it’s not my fault, then she’s just a bitch. So she’s converting her bitch move into an “executive decision” so it looks legitimate. Well, I won’t be accused of something I didn’t do. I told her she was spewing falsehoods, and of course she changed the subject and dismissed me. That’s what crafty, underhanded people do. Avoid discussion. Avoid the truth.
Weeks and weeks had gone by without SVA calling me for work, which never happened when the previous model coordinator was there. But I was patient about it. I wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt since she was new at the job. I figured she deserved a grace period to get oriented. How wrong I was. She knew exactly what she was doing, that sneaky little creature. She didn’t even have the decency or consideration to talk to me directly. She just wasted my time, allowed me to lose money, and kept me in the dark about everything. Never mind that I’ve been at that school longer than she has, have never been late or called in sick, have done everything that was asked of me in the classrooms, and have done absolutely nothing to her. I even wished her good luck in her new position. Turns out she doesn’t need luck. What she needs are some professional ethics . . . and a little integrity.
For all the other art models out there, especially the ones just starting out in this business, there is a lesson to be learned in this. Don’t EVER put all your eggs in one basket when it comes to employment. You are a freelancer, an “independent contractor”. Spread your work out among as many schools as you can, because NO JOB is secure. None. Something as seemingly innocuous as a new model coordinator can change everything. It doesn’t matter how good you are, how reliable you are, or how inspiring you are. If the new person decides – like a petty, power-hungry tyrant – that they don’t like you, you’re out on the curb. With no explanation. Because you’re not entitled to one. She actually said that, in her grating, abrasive style: “I don’t owe you a reason”. Her exact words. So ALWAYS have other art modeling jobs to fall back on. No matter how much work they give you, do NOT rely solely on one place for your employment.
This is an awful situation and I have a lousy few days ahead of me. I have to find a place of work to substitute for SVA. Yes I did start recently at the New York Academy of Art, but that was to replace the Studio School. Now I need a second replacement. SVA pays their models well (thanks to the efforts of the previous model coordinator who secured us the good pay) and I depended on that SVA paycheck to cover a lot of my bills. Now, in one fell swoop, at the random whim of ONE person, it’s been taken from me. My livelihood is in jeopardy. (When I mentioned this to the model coordinator, she said “That’s not my problem, sorry”. Isn’t that sweet?).
To make matters worse, I went to the doctor today for a regular checkup. Basically everything went well, and he was impressed with my 110/70 blood pressure. I also have to get an echocardiogram (I was born with a congenital heart defect. An aortic valve replacement is in my future 
) But then I told him I’ve been experiencing a whirring sound and vibration in my right ear, and an occasional throbbing in my right temple. He looked in my ear and said it was fine. Clear and “perfect”. So what’s causing the whirring?
Narcissus Unleashed
Before my afternoon job at FIT the other day, I was having lunch in a small organic health food eatery on Seventh Avenue. I sat quietly, dividing my attention between a mesclun salad and the New York Times crossword puzzle. Two young women were sitting nearby and I couldn’t help but overhear their conversation. One of the women was telling the other that she was planning to break up with her boyfriend. When the friend asked why, the woman replied, “Because I can’t take it anymore. He’s such a narcissist!”. A knowing smirk formed on my face. A narcissistic man in New York City?? Impossible! That’s kooky talk!!
Ah, but I tease my hometown and our psychologically defective residents. The truth is that narcissists are everywhere, flooding our popular culture and inflicting their pernicious disorder on all the rest of us. Paris Hilton, for example, refuses to go away. Ubiquitous reality TV “personalities” expect fame and adulation with no discernible talent or contribution. And now, like the straw that might break the camel’s back, we have the ever-conceited Yankee third baseman Alex Rodriguez appearing in a magazine photo spread kissing his own reflection. Is he purposely trying to make us all vomit, or is our collective nausea just an unintended side effect? Yuck.
Have these fools learned nothing from the original narcissist? He was, after all, their symbolic and etymological namesake; the one and only Narcissus of Greek and Roman mythology. You all know the story. Son of the river god Cephisus, Narcissus was a beautiful and vain young man. While wandering in the woods, he was spotted by the lovely nymph Echo. She followed him adoringly. But Narcissus spurned her love and affection, in a cold and heartless fashion no less. He did the same with all others who fell in love with him because, in his eyes, none of them were worthy. His inflated self-image pushed away all suitors, both male and female. The sweet, innocent Echo was heartbroken, and endured great sorrow over Narcissus’ callous and arrogant rejection.
Narcissus then saw his reflection in a pool of water and, like a true narcissist, fell in love with himself. The Greek version of the myth has Narcissus bending down to kiss his reflected image, falling in the pool and drowning. The Roman version tells us that he kissed his reflection and saw how it disturbed the perfection of the still image. So rather than disturb his gorgeous reflection again, he just stared . . . and stared and stared, until he died of thirst . . . and wasted away. . . never having received love, unable to open his heart to another, unable to break free of his pathological self-obsession.
The story of Narcissus and his tragic fate has been a popular theme for art, literature, and poetry over the ages. One of the most well-known visual depictions was given to us by John William Waterhouse. From 1903, this is Echo and Narcissus:
Here is Caravaggio’s self-admiring Narcissus boy, entranced by his own reflection. I think A-Rod has him beat:
Nicholas Poussin’s Echo and Narcissus from 1628, portrays Narcissus at the end of his rope, after he has expended all his emotional energy pining over himself. With Echo looking on, he dies empty and unfulfilled, left with nothing but his ego and his depleted body on the riverbank:
Although I’ve known many in my life, and been forced to cope with much pain and aggravation due to their destructive ways, I’ve realized that all you can do for a narcissist is pity them. Not because they’re flawed (we all are), and not because they have inflated egos (just “fancy” arrogance), but because they’re incapable of giving. And giving is one of the greatest, most satisfying joys in life, whether it be friendship, devotion, or romantic love – generosity of one’s spirit, sharing and exposing of one’s soul. Without giving, receiving feels corrupt and opportunistic, and pointless. Yes, I pity the narcissists. They have no idea what they’re missing . . .
Blog Launch
This is a delight. This is art, drawing, friendship, blogging . . . all good things in life. I’m thrilled to inform everyone that my very dear friend, artist and photographer (and frequent Museworthy commenter) Fred Hatt, has embarked on a fabulous blogging journey. I say it’s about time! A vibrant fusion of photographic and drawing images with commentary and discussion, Drawing Life will be an exciting place for anyone in the visual arts. Plus, Fred has compiled one of the most superb blogrolls I’ve ever seen.
This isn’t merely about Fred being one of my best friends. Naturally I support him. But because I know him so well I know that he has the skills to make it work. With his observant eye, analytical mind, and potent creative impulse, Fred’s blog will be consistently illuminating and inspiring. If you don’t believe me just check out his first post.
Congratulations Fred! Nice job. Allow me to offer you an official warm welcome to the blogosphere. Great to have you among us. And for some extra kudos, as one of your longtime models, I’ll strip naked and take a pose in front of my computer, just for you Ready? Here we go!! :twist . . . pivot . . . ouch! My back!!:
Success and Decompress
Hellooo, hellooooo!! Greetings, friends. I’m writing this post at 11:00 on Saturday night in a blurry, nebulous mental state. I have the fuzzy head. You know the fuzzy head? When your patterns are all twisted and out of synch and you’re so ridiculously tired you don’t even have the energy to make a cup of tea? I worked my first full day yesterday at the New York Academy of Art (more on that in a minute), came home exhausted, then got up early this morning to pose at Spring Studio. Short poses galore, with my hamstrings killing me. Back home again, I FELL ASLEEP around 7:00 and just woke up about an hour ago! My mind is mush and my body is sore. What the hell day is it? What time is it? Am I hungry? Do I go back to sleep? What’s going on? Where am I?
So in my temporary wakefulness, I wanted to get on my blog, say hello, respond to comments, and provide all interested parties with an update on the New York Academy of Art. So how did it go? EXCELLENT!! Very, very good, I’m happy to say. What a terrific place. I arrived about 15 minutes early, all jacked up on coffee, ready to work. The instructor for the class is the amazing Christopher Pugliese, one of best contemporary figurative artists. He’s a terrific guy and I was so pleased at how well we worked together. I did a standing pose, and a challenging one at that. But it was well worth it. For a great class of students, great teacher, and great new job, how could I not give 110%? It’s my duty, and my passion. Chris and I have another six Fridays together and I look forward to each one.
Coincidentally, the topic of art model physical exertion came up in the comments of the previous post. And here I am, living that very issue. Tomorrow is Sunday. I plan to sleep late, and I do mean LATE. I’m not setting any alarm of any kind, neither buzzer nor NPR. I’m just going to let my aching body and my subconscious dreamworld dictate how long I need to stay in bed. I’m predicting it’ll be close to noon when my eyelids flutter open.
So in a brief recap: New York Academy was great, Spring Studio was great too even though I was hurting, and now I’m spent and discombobulated. Until my next post, I will be much like the model in this painting by William Etty, Nude Woman Asleep:
Painting the Town
My big new art modeling gig is just 36 hours away. Friday morning, 10:00 AM sharp, I will stroll into the New York Academy of Art for my first day of work. I’m excited! Not experiencing any butterflies or nervousness, thank god. Just hoping I get a good night’s sleep and wake up feeling well-rested, well-stretched, on top of my game :crosses fingers:
This will be the first time in over two years that I’ll be posing in front of people who are completely unacquainted with me. I’ve been working in the same places for so long, that every time I pose there are several artists, or at least an instructor, who knows me well. Familiarity is a delight, it’s true. The comfort level, conviviality, and intimacy can’t be beat. But Friday morning will be a special treat because I get to experience that “one time only” sensation of presenting myself for the very first time. Strange sets of eyes in a strange new studio, they’re going to size me up, assess me, evaluate me, study me. Bring it on! For my part, I’m relishing the opportunity to step onto a “virgin platform”. It will be my Neil Armstrong on the moon moment. I don’t know why it thrills me so much, but it does.
The one thing I’ll miss Friday morning is not being greeted with the usual “Hi Claudias!” and “Good to see yous!” I’ll probably hear instead, “Who the hell is this bony broad? Can she pose? She’d better put up that shaggy mop of hair so we can see her neck, dammit!” Just kidding
I’ll have to get used to calling the New York Academy of Art “the Academy” and remember to keep referring to the National Academy as “the National”. (Written shorthand in my planner it will be NYAA and NA). Don’t want to get my academies mixed up. Two very different places, especially in geography. The National Academy is on the Upper East Side, on 89th Street, across the street from the Guggenheim. The New York Academy is way, way, way downtown in Tribeca. Watch me get on the uptown subway by mistake!
In due time I hope to have an image of a New York Academy of Art painting for the blog. That would be terrific. There are very talented, hardworking artists down there and I really look forward to seeing their artistic interpretations of me. So as the class progresses I’ll sidle up to one of them, do a little sweet talking, and ask coyly, “Can me takey piccy for my bloggy?? Pwetty pwease?????”.
In the meantime, the uptown academy – the good old NATIONAL Academy – has produced more paintings of me than any other school in this town. I’ve been working there the longest and have a sentimental attachment to the place. Way back when, it was the National Academy that “broke me in”, when I was a new, emerging artist’s model.
Curt Altmann was kind enough to send me this image of his painting. It was created very recently in Nicky Orbach’s class at the National, and we enjoyed our laid-back Saturday mornings. Not only did Curt render me so strong, dramatic and assertive, he also brought me coffee from the deli! Now THAT’S how you treat a model. Bring coffee. We are eternally grateful Thanks Curt, you’re a sweetheart! And thanks for the pic. I love it.
New York Academy of Art . . . here I come!
Music Man – My Father, In Memoriam
Today, March 8th, would have been my father’s 77th birthday. Tragically, he only lived to see 72. He left us suddenly, not long after he and I had a late night phone conversation. (I was the last person to speak to him). To this day, it pains me to think that just four hours later, he was collapsed on his bedroom floor, paralyzed and unconscious from a stroke, my mother frantically calling 911. It was a very bad, harrowing event for my family. None of us have recovered
This post, however, commemorates my father’s life, not his death. I could write on and on about my father, but I assure you that one measly blog post couldn’t possibly convey the man’s complexity, character, and life story. He was so many things. He was, above all, a committed husband and father. But a close second to those devotions was his role as a musician. A professional, working musician, who supported his family and put his children through college doing the thing he loved most: playing his trumpet.
Picasso’s Three Musicians:
Born the second child of struggling Armenian immigrants, my father worked since he was 12 years old: repairing bikes in a bicycle shop, making shakes in a luncheonette, delivering newspapers. One day in public school band class, he picked up a trumpet, and it was love at first sight.
Dad graduated from college with a degree in economics, and planned to seek employment on Wall Street. But fairly steady work doing club dates around New York City encouraged him, and my father – a very practical man by nature – made the most impractical decision of his life. He would forgo a nine to five job and make a living as a musician. To his old-fashioned family the choice seemed crazy. Why would a man with a college education pass up regular employment in the mainstream work force in favor of the erratic, unreliable music business? Why? A deep-seated passion for music, that’s why. Dad went with his gut. He gambled. He felt in his soul, that a livelihood could be found in the music world. And he did find it.
This painting by Degas is a beautiful depiction of orchestra musicians. It’s also a great example of Degas’ exceptional talent for perspective and composition. Makes you feel like you’re right there, down in the pit with the guys:
A musician’s life means working nights and weekends, never spending New Year’s Eve with your spouse, and constantly staying in touch with bookers and bandleaders. And in my father’s case, it also meant being able to perform a range of musical styles. Throughout his five decade long career, Dad played popular music, jazz, Latin, standards, even traditional Jewish music for Hasidic weddings in Brooklyn. Whatever was required of him. Some of Dad’s gigs were truly exciting (backing up Frank Sinatra was one memorable highlight), others were less glamorous. But whether he was playing the Waldorf-Astoria ballroom or a Knights of Columbus hall, my father was just happy to be working and playing the trumpet. He considered no job beneath him. Plus he had a family to support.
German Expressionist Max Beckmann made himself a horn player in this bizarre self-portrait:
With all due respect to Beckmann, I think my father was much more handsome holding his horn. Of course, I’m a little biased. Here’s a very young Dad on the bandstand, fresh out of a two year stint in the army. Circa mid-1950s:
Dad’s big break came when he was hired by the Herman Stenzler Orchestra. They performed regularly at the old Taft Hotel on 51st Street. In 1959, Dad invited a beautiful young artist to come hear him play. Her name was Elaine, and Dad dazzled her with his melodious trumpeting. Within a year, they were married
My father posing proudly with his beloved horn:
My father’s respect for the trumpet was profound. A difficult instrument to master, the trumpet’s rich tone is expressive and versatile unlike any other instrument, and is capable of vast musical range. Dad held great admiration for fellow trumpet players, and his list of favorites was diverse. It included such disparate players as Louis Armstrong, Harry James, Clifford Brown, Miles Davis, Dizzy Gillespie, Maynard Ferguson, Freddie Hubbard, Arturo Sandoval, and Wynton Marsalis. (Two guys who left my father cold were Chet Baker and Chris Botti. Aww, sorry fellas!)
LeRoy Neiman’s work of Louis Armstrong captures the power and vibrant musical energy of trumpet playing. This is Satchmo from 1976:
I had the toughest time selecting an mp3 file for this post. So many trumpet tracks could have made the cut. I decided to go with one of my Dad’s heroes, a hero to all trumpet players in fact – the phenomenal Dizzy Gillespie. Dad never stopped marveling at Dizzy’s mind-boggling technique, his virtuosity, his ability to generate excitement, play with high-speed velocity and hit thrilling high notes, all seemingly with ease. In his pre-bebop days, Dizzy Gillespie led a superb big band, and demonstrated the perfect combination of showmanship and musicianship. Dad loved that. He loved a showman who also possessed skill and artistry. Real “chops” as Dad used to put it.
This playful song is called “Cool Breeze”. Dizzy’s crisp, lively trumpet solos are a wonder. The track also contains a little scat singing, which my father always found hilarious. He liked to do his own scatting sometimes, laughing all the way through it. Wherever you are, Dad, I hope you’re listening . . . and playing along.
My father adored this old family photo. He smiled every time he saw it. A true Hajian family portrait, I scanned it specifically to post on Museworthy. (The print makes its permanent home on my refrigerator). From left to right, that’s Dad, Mom, me looking rather bewildered, and my brother Chris. The year is 1970, the occasion is my 2nd birthday, and the location is the southside of Queens. It’s very appropriate, and symbolic, that my father looms the largest of the four of us:
There are no words to describe how deeply my father is missed. Our patriarch, our provider, our friend . . . a very Museworthy man.
Dad, this is my tribute to you. Happy Birthday big guy
Love always,
“Little Beeber”
Love in the Afternoon
Radiant midday sun. Melting remains of a three day-old snowfall. Neighborhood birds chirping in the trees. And two feral cats. Nuzzling, rubbing, purring, doing a friendship dance, displaying affection, protection, companionship, and never leaving each other’s side. They are Monty and Punk, and they have bonded beautifully over the past couple of months. They are the best of friends, and they love each other! This particular show was a sight to see. As corny as it sounds, I literally felt like I had not a care in the world as I watched these two express their feelings and contentment. It was both entertaining and endearing
Booze Muse
Well friends, the muse has a hangover. The muse misses the days when she was a devil-may-care party girl. The muse wonders when she became such a lightweight.
I went out with my friend last night. He took my arm and twisted it and twisted it and twisted it until I imbibed three gin cocktails against my will. (And if you believe that crap then I have bridge in Brooklyn I’d like to sell you ) We had great fun, though, and he was enough of a gentleman to walk my drunk ass to the subway, as I giggled and babbled nonsense all the way there. I might have pinched his butt, I don’t remember.
We went to a fabulous bar on 19th street which is reminiscent of the 1920s. Retro all the way, in everything from it’s art deco atmosphere to it’s elaborate drink menu. It’s not a place where you order a Bud Lite and watch a football game on the TV.
And of course I had to work today. Wanna know what it’s like to do art modeling with a hangover? I’ll tell you. It’s a grueling hell. Up on a platform, trying to hold still, is no situation to be in when your head is pounding and your vision is spinning. I’m just grateful I didn’t have an evening job booked. That would have meant a double – a hangover double. Oy vey!
Since I was at a Roaring 20s-inspired bar last night, it made me think of fun-loving flappers – the original party girls. Drinking, smoking, doing the Charleston, frolicking on the beach, dancing on tables a la Zelda Fitzgerald. Even in my prime I don’t think I could keep up. I found this fun, adorable video on YouTube. It’s not authentic. Instead, it’s two girls who created a grainy, flapper tribute, with dresses from a costume shop and freewheeling Charleston moves. I love these girls! This will make you smile. Enjoy while I go put an icepack on my head
Sexaholic
“All art is erotic” – Gustav Klimt
I don’t know if that’s true for guys like Monet or Gainsborough or Norman Rockwell, but for Klimt himself truer words were never spoken. Arguably one of Austria’s most formidable artistic figures, Gustav Klimt had, as they say, sex on the brain, and everywhere else no doubt 
When he wasn’t choking cats, he was creating lusty, seductive images of women in the throes of passion.
To some degree, Klimt’s life benefited from highly providential circumstances. He was in the right place at the right time in history. Vienna, at the turn of the century. A bona-fide cultural capital of Europe. While not quite as cutting-edge as Paris, Vienna still offered fertile ground for artistic expression. It was the city of Sigmund Freud and Arnold Schoenberg, theaters, cafes, music, nightclubs, literature, architecture. It glistened during that shining period of European history known as Belle Époque (“beautiful era”). An artist like Klimt couldn’t have asked for a more conducive milieu. If Klimt was in Paris, he might have been just another avante-gardist. But in Vienna he was THE avante-gardist. Better a big fish in a smaller tank, right?
But life didn’t start out so gloriously for Gustav Klimt. Born the second of seven children just outside Vienna in 1862, Klimt grew up in a poor, struggling family. His father, an engraver, had difficulty making ends meet. As a result the family frequently moved from place to place. Like it often does, art school presented a way out of obscurity, and the fourteen year old Klimt entered Vienna’s School of Arts and Crafts on a scholarship. There he immersed himself in the meticulous, decorative techniques of mosaic and fresco. Soon, commissions for public art projects around Vienna came flowing in.
Given Klimt’s propensity for overt sexual imagery, it was only a matter of time before he offended a client. In the 1890s, he was commissioned to create three large paintings on the wall of the University. He did, and was vehemently criticized for their perceived scandalous nature. Klimt was accused of creating “pornography” and using “excessive perversion”. Needless to say, Klimt had an epiphany as a result of the experience. He realized that public work assignments in the government’s employ would never afford him the artistic freedom he required. By 1900, he was out on his own. That meant female models. Nude female models. All day, every day. Let the fun begin!
The studio had the feel of a harem. Klimt’s models strolled around casually in the nude, lounging, napping, stretching, gossiping, each one ready at a moment’s notice to provide erotic poses and explicit sexuality for the intense Klimt. The man himself wore a long, loose-fitting robe and sandals. Mizzi Zimmerman was among those models, and she became pregnant with his child. In true Klimt form, he painted her in her pregnant state, erotically of course.
It’s not an accident that most of Klimt’s models are redheads. He had a thing for them. Here are a few, floating around in blissful, wanton surrender. Water in Motion from 1898:
Klimt became known as “Vienna’s painter prince” and he enjoyed the moniker. Many of the city’s socialites and upper class women approached him for commissioned portraits, friendship, or more. Klimt attempted to seduce every last one of them, with varying success. Among them was Friederike Maria Beer, daughter of a wealthy nightclub owner. Friederike described Klimt as having “animal magnetism”. Klimt also met and had a tempestuous affair with Alma Schindler, the future wife of composer Gustav Mahler. But without question, Klimt’s most famous “rich lady” friend and painting subject was Adele Bloch-Bauer, wife of a wealthy Viennese industrialist. Klimt’s renowned gold-embellished portrait of Adele hangs in the Neue Galerie here in New York. In 2006, Ronald Lauder’s purchase of that painting for $135 million generated such an insane level of hype in this city I have no words to describe the madness. It was nuts.
But it was Klimt’s studio models who were his most exciting and willing muses. Portraiture aside, no Vienna society lady would pose for – let alone pull off – something like this. One of my favorite paintings, this is Danae. If it reminds you of a sleepy, dreaming woman in an orgasmic state, then Klimt did his job well. Girl is feeling goood
Klimt did many drawings, some as preparation for paintings. This is Woman Semi-Nude. Nice view!
Klimt rarely, and I do mean RARELY, used male models. But he clearly needed one for this drawing, Recumbent Lovers. As a drawing it’s nothing spectacular, but I thought my blogosphere fellas would enjoy it. So here you go, guys. A little missionary action for ya’.
Let’s get horizontal again shall we? Only this time we’ll dispense of heterosexual love and explore homosexuality. For a man like Klimt that meant one thing: lesbians. This is his treatment (one of many) of lesbian eroticism. From 1907, Water Snakes II:
Klimt was a hypochondriac. Obsessive about his health, he lifted weights to stay in top physical condition and suffered paranoid fears of diseases, both of body and mind. But there was one disease that Klimt could not protect himself from, not even with the strictest health regimen: syphilis. He contracted it, inevitably, after years of promiscuity and countless affairs.
Comparisons are naturally drawn between Klimt and his Austrian compatriot Egon Schiele. Younger than Klimt by almost 30 years, Schiele reached out to Klimt and became his protege. Like his older mentor, Schiele created art that was considered by many as lewd and pornographic. But Schiele’s sexual imagery seems to have a repellant, debasing effect, while Klimt’s are more sensuous, vivid, and aesthetically engaging. (In my opinion, a parallel between Klimt and Rodin is a more apt comparison artistically).
When asked why he never painted a self-portrait, Klimt explained that “there is nothing special about me . . . whoever wants to know something about me ought to look carefully at my pictures”. That’s an honest, rather than evasive, answer. Look at the pictures, just like the man said. And if “a picture paints a thousands words”, we can safely say that we know Gustav Klimt pretty darn well. We know, above all else, that no subject inspired him more than the female form.
I take issue with this last image. It’s The Virgin from 1913, and I’m ashamed to admit that when I lost my virginity it neither looked nor felt anything remotely like this. What gives? I want a do-over! (too late for that). This is obviously an idealized male fantasy of what a girl’s “transformation” is like. But a gorgeous, decadent panting nonetheless. It glimmers and shimmers, in trademark Klimt style:
You can find more images and information about Klimt, and things I didn’t cover here – his participation in the Vienna Secession, the “Beethoven Frieze”, and his long term relationship with Emilie Flöge – on this excellent site. Beautifully designed, informative, and visually stunning, it was of great help to me organizing this post.
And as for Museworthy, our horny boy Klimt will be back for sure
