Hit the Fan

There are some professional art models who can, upon request, provide an array of props, costumes, and accessories to adorn their pose. I am not one of them. Yes, I confess. I’m not the greatest prop/costume model. Don’t get me wrong, I have some stuff. Nice scarves, a ballet costume, a couple of hats. I had a blue kimono that has mysteriously gone missing. I am a full time artist’s model who shows up to work with little more than my face and body. Most of the time those two things are more than sufficient. But it’s the models who also work as dancers, actors, or performers of some kind, who have sizable collections of accessories, which include such things as feather boas, turbans, bolero jackets, canes, capes, tiaras, and the classic favorite, the fan.

I don’t have a fan. My mother once remarked to me, “Why don’t you have a fan? You should have a fan for posing”. Can you believe it? My own mother! Pointing out my modeling shortcomings! Thanks Mom

The late Aviva Stone was a fabulous model when it came to costuming poses. She worked with hats, jewelry, and, of course, fans. She worked them well too. Probably better than anyone.

There are two kinds of hand-held fans, the folding kind and the screen kind. I believe the folding fan originated in Japan, while the screen came out of China. Both traditionally have bamboo frames and often have decorative designs printed on them. Fans add an interesting shape and focal point to a painting, and are most commonly used as a prop for female, rather than male, sitters.

Mary Cassatt’s Lady With a Fan:

William Merritt Chase’s The Blue Kimono. Fans and kimonos naturally go well together:

James Jacques Tissot was a 19th century French painter. This piece is called simply, The Fan, from 1875. Interesting shape created by the pose, with the fan held prominently up and conveying a playful feel:

This one is gorgeous and striking, from the unique look of the model to the furious red of the kimono. I think it’s my favorite of the group. By Jules Joseph Lefebvre, appropriately titled, The Language of the Fan:

From Diego Velasquez, the great master of Spanish baroque, this is Lady With a Fan:

Englishman Albert Joseph Moore presented a fan in a more Greco-Roman style in this work, The Gilded Fan:

This next painting makes no sense, in my opinion. What is supposed to be the focal point here? With that one exposed breast, your eye goes right to it, which is fine, but then the fan seems frivolous. I’m no artist, but I would have either eliminated the fan or covered up that breast. Jean Beauduin’s A Lady Holding a Fan. An alternate title could have been “Half-exposed Lady Holding a Fan”, haha. I would also lose the plant:

Pedro Antonio wants us to know that these are Two Elegant Ladies Holding Fans. They’re “elegant”, ok? Don’t forget that! I think they look like two party girl troublemakers, like the Paris Hilton and Lindsay Lohan of 1828. These chicks are up to no good, I can tell

My only comment about this next painting is this: that is one big-ass fan! From Roberto Fontano, A Young Girl Holding a Fan:

Even some 20th century artists got on the fan bandwagon. If I ever do pose with a fan, I’d like to present it this way. Sexy and alluring. Very cool! From Kees van Dongen, Woman With a Fan, 1920:

I found almost all of the images in this post on Art Renewal Center.

Death of a Pop Star

For those of us who were teenagers in the 1980s, the death of Michael Jackson carries a special symbolism, one that those didn’t come of age during that era can’t fully grasp. Now I was always more of a Prince girl myself, but I was still a big Michael Jackson fan.

“Thriller” sold a mind-boggling 40 million copies, a number that is almost inconceivable. But there is a more significant aspect of Michael’s musical achievements that isn’t being mentioned enough in the TV and Internet coverage. It’s not about numbers. Allow me to explain. In the years before 1982 when “Thriller” came out, the pop music scene totally sucked. People weren’t buying many albums, mainly because there was nothing to buy! Think about it. Late 70s and pre-Thriller 80s? Nothing good. Nothing memorable at least. Crappy obnoxious punk bands, disco, you get the idea.

What Michael Jackson did with “Thriller” was single-handedly revive the music industry. He gave an entire generation music we would actually go spend our allowance money on. Music we would play constantly on our record players (remember those?), dance to in our bedrooms, sing along to. We had been waiting, since we were 11 years old, for someone to come along and deliver a soundtrack for our youth. Then Michael Jackson came along, and he delivered it. It may sound silly now, but it meant a lot at the time, especially if you were a 14 year old girl. For us, “Thriller” was OUR album. The seven number one hits were ours too. Our parents and grandparents had their music, and their icons. Now we had ours. And the floodgates were opened for more. Pop music was alive again.

I am just as disturbed and uncomfortable about Michael Jackson’s private behavior as anyone else. But you know, that kind of thing hasn’t stopped us from admiring Leonardo da Vinci, Oscar Wilde, Walt Whitman, Caravaggio, and a host of other creative talents who were either known to or rumored to engage in pedophilia.

I wish Michael Jackson had sought help for his demons, coped better with fame, come to terms with his abusive childhood, or at least been blessed with one true friend who might have steered him toward a healthier, more responsible life. But like most superstars, he was surrounded by enablers and hangers-on. Like Elvis, like Marilyn Monroe. So often these people become lonely, isolated prisoners. The whole thing is very sad and tragic.

Michael Jackson’s music and electrifying performances touched millions of people the world over. Even my musician father, a man of very high standards, was a fan of Michael Jackson! He appreciated Jackson’s vocal talent, showmanship, and the quality production of his studio recordings.

Here’s Michael Jackson doing “Man in the Mirror”. I chose this video because he performs his freaking heart out. A great entertainer.  RIP Michael. Thanks for the memories . . .

Cat in a Box

You have not truly lived until you have witnessed a cat in a box. If you haven’t, then you are missing out on one of life’s most profound experiences. Problems at work? Look at a cat in a box. Marital discord? Look at a cat in a box. Named as a defendant in a multi-million dollar lawsuit? Ah, forget it. Just look at a cat in box

This is the secret to life right here. My boy Monty, IN A BOX!

His BFF, known as Punk, IN A BOX!

My blogging friend and fellow artist’s model Waverly made the wise suggestion recently that I publish a cat post to lift my spirits out from the evil beast. I told her I would follow her advice and with a “surprise”. So here it is. When Punk showed up out of nowhere last year, I assumed she was a male but with no actual proof. It turns out she is a female, and has graced my garden with two precious creatures. Congratulate me everyone. I’m a grandmother!!!

Here are Punk’s twin babies, IN A BOX!!!!!!

Monty is NOT the father. The father is some strange roaming male who was harassing Punk for a couple of days and has never been seen again since knocking her up. Typical male! Only cares about sex

Punk and one of her troublemakers hanging out by the hydrangea bushes:

I’ve already spoken to my local vet. They told me that they do spay feral females and that I can bring Punk in as soon as the kittens are weaned. She lets me pick her up without too much resistance, so I’ll be able to place her in a box – um, “carrier”.

Monty again, ON TOP OF a box. He broke it from doing this. It collapsed right under him after I took this picture:

If you’re wondering what came in that box, it was something beautiful for my garden. Here he is:

Because I’m totally obsessed with this, here’s Monty one more time, IN A BOX!!!!!!

I don’t know what I would do during these difficult weeks without the wonders of nature and animals. They provide immeasurable joys and smiles. You were right Waverly, thank you.

My hydrangea bushes in their blooming glory:

A People’s Voice – Art of Iran

Horror. Dismay. Sadness. Like the rest of the world, I’ve been watching the disturbing footage of protests, turmoil, and violence from Iran in the wake of their “election”. To call them a troubled country right now would be a gross understatement. Even we westerners, looking at our television and internet screens, can’t help but feel the frustration, anger, and outrage of Iranians in their turbulent quest to re-define their future, assert their voice, and speak truth to power.

I’ve often thought that government – and the self-serving, megalomaniacal despots and politicians who generally comprise government – is the worst part of any given nation. For many of us, it is culture – arts, dance, music, poetry – that reveals the authentic soul of a people, not their government. This holds especially true for a people who are oppressed, silenced, manipulated, denied self-expression and the unfettered pursuit of their dreams, for themselves and their children.

I have always had a touch of that “fuck authority” attitude. Government weasels, trigger-happy militia forces, and deranged tyrants can bring out the cynic in anybody. And cynicism is not necessarily a bad thing. But for the people caught in the crossfires of strife – innocent, hopeful dreamers and believers – they deserve better. At this moment in time, Iranians deserve better. Acknowledgement of their extraordinary cultural heritage is a good start.

So I thought I would take this opportunity remind both myself and my readers that Iran has a long, rich cultural history, one that goes back thousands of years, when it was known as Persia, and home to some of the earliest civilizations. I’m sure millions of Iranians would want us to know that they are more than just another violent, unstable country in the Middle East, more than a place of mobs, shootings, bloodshed, and tear gas. I wouldn’t want to be identified by such things either. As always, we turn to the arts to deliver us away. Beauty over brutality. Inspiration over oppression. Humanity over inhumanity.

In Wikipedia, I discovered the work and fascinating biography of Iranian-born artist Bahram Alivandi. Born in 1928, Alivandi received his artistic training in Tehran, where he mastered not only painting, but traditional Persian arts of ceramics, miniatures, and tapestry.

From Wiki:

Alivandi’s work is rich in symbolism and oriental motifs, such as the fish, gazelle, and horse, which are traditional motifs of Persian miniatures. He draws influence from Persian culture, depicting characters and stories from legends and epic poetry. He left Iran several years after the Islamic revolution of 1979 to escape the repression and censorisation of all free artistic expression. He has lived and worked in Vienna since 1983.

Here are two images of Alivandi’s work. I absolutely love these! They are both done in ink and veneer on canvas. Look at the beautiful bird in the first one:

Hopes for peace in Iran . . . and hopes for peace on earth . . . .

Spoken Word

Wet Dreams

We are getting soaked here in New York! Mother Nature is inflicting a major hydration treatment on us. I can’t remember when we’ve had so many days of near-constant rainfall. I wonder if this is wettest spring on record? It poured like crazy yesterday. Right now the sun is out. It’s a miracle! But rain is coming tonight, and again tomorrow all day. At least the lawns and flower gardens are getting a thorough watering. I’m concerned for my tomato plant, though.

The Umbrellas, by Pierre-Auguste Renoir:

How is everyone? I hope you’re all well. I’m consumed with love and gratitude for my friends and family, all of whom are generously offering diversions from my struggles. My awesome brother Chris treated me to a movie recently. We met at the Lincoln Square Theaters and agreed to see “Terminator Salvation”. It was the perfect choice. As a man, Chris got to spend two hours looking at explosions and stuff blowing up. As a woman, I got to spend two hours looking at Christian Bale Mmm . . .

I’m most happy right now because my dear friend Stephanie is in town visiting from Florida. We were best friends in middle school and high school and hadn’t seen each other in 22 years. Yes, you read that correctly – 22 years. Stephanie and I spent the day together on Tuesday and it was a wonderful reunion. Lots of hugging and crying! I’ll be seeing her again this weekend before she goes back. I love Steph

My cousin Armen, newly graduated from Clark University, will soon be heading off to France to attend Thich Nhat Hanh’s mindfulness retreat at Plum Village. I wish I was going with him. Instead, I’ll have to endure what is turning out to be an incredibly slow summer for art modeling work. It’s by far the slowest I’ve seen. Damn the economy!

Before I sign off, here’s one more rain painting. A lovely one too. This is Wet Night by George Bellows:

Glow With the Flow

One day at a time. It may be a stale cliché, but it still holds some useful, albeit banal, wisdom. It describes how I’m dealing with life right now. One day at a time. I’m getting there. It’s working as well as can be expected.

Still, every day is a crapshoot. You never know what sort of odd behavior you might engage in. Crying. Pacing. Moping. Acting out, perhaps. Or wrestling with the beast trying to show him who’s boss and take some kind of control. Or maybe something simpler, like just being your typical artist’s model; ultra-comfortable with your nude body, taking solace in it, deriving a sense of strength and security from it. Like today, for example, I came home from work, fed my cats, and suddenly felt the urge to take some nude pictures. Pictures of me, by me, on my Mac. Using the “glow” effect. Both myself and my laptop on the floor of my house. Hell, I just felt like it

The glow feature seems to have added 10 pounds to my body, but aside from that I think the pictures came out pretty groovy. Distortion is cool. And the light effects remind me of the aurora borealis. I may be a woman at war – with the beast, with society, with my own psyche – but I still know how to roll with the punches. Glow with the flow, my friends . . . glow with the flow . . .

Beautiful Sadness

A prolonged and exasperating search for a hair clip yesterday led me to a mildly revelatory moment. Hmm. Can something be “mildly revelatory”? Sounds oxymoronic to me. Oh what the hell, let’s go with it. Anyway, I finally found the elusive hair clip – my best tortoiseshell one – tucked away on the shelf of my bathroom mirror, wedged behind a jar of skin cream. I removed the clip from its hiding place and, since I was standing right in front of the mirror, looked up and saw my reflection. I saw, staring back at me, my “beast face”. My “troubled” face. A face of sadness.

When you consider that I was completely makeup-free, with air-dried, uncoiffed hair, and had only four hours of anxious, fitful sleep, I actually didn’t look half bad. From a purely superficial standpoint, my appearance was surprisingly decent given the circumstances. But something else was going on underneath. It was the unmistakable look of sadness. A look that easily overrides glowing skin and shiny hair. When one is profoundly sad, as I am these days, it marks your face indelibly, the telltale signs found in the eyes, the corners of the mouth, tension in the brow. An overall expression of despair. A mask that carries the desperate message, “Help me”.

The bathroom mirror incident led me to think about how sadness or, more poetically, “melancholy”, has been a popular theme in art through the ages. Sad women (it’s always women!) are considered a “beautiful” subject in the eyes of many painters. The Pre-Raphaelites had a particular fondness for dejected and forlorn women. Who knows? Maybe they suffered from depression too!

I’m somewhat relieved that artists aren’t disturbed or distracted by unhappy models, and even find beauty in them, because I have to pose at the New York Academy of Art tonight. And the beast, tag-along that he is, will be up on that platform with me. He’s a menace. It’s what he does.

John William Godward’s Tambourine Girl:

My Friend Frida

“I drank to drown my pain, but the dammed pain learned how to swim . . .”

- Frida Kahlo

Frida understands. She gets it. Polio in childhood, a crippling trolley car accident in her teens in which she suffered a broken spinal column, broken collar bone and eleven fractures in her right leg, and then in her adulthood, a marriage to Diego Rivera. Frida Kahlo was best friends with pain, both physical and emotional. And the quote above describes the cunning nature of pain. In it, Frida speaks of pain like a separate entity, like I do when I talk of “the beast”. It is its own creature, it’s own wily, unscrupulous creature that can outmaneuver its victim with impressive guile.

I’m writing this post because I’m fucking pissed off, frankly. I’m sick of this asshole beast and his crap, pulling a fast one on me left and right. I hate him. I want him to just leave me the hell alone and go away already!  Today was yet another day this prick stole from me, like yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that. Grrrr, grrrr! Dammit.

From Frida Kahlo, Surrealist artist and godmother of pain, this is The Broken Column, 1944:

Eyes on the Prize

I am the luckiest blogger in the world. I was thinking about how much I’ve been clinging to Museworthy these days, and I realized that the usual reasons – my love of art, art modeling, writing, and self-expression – haven’t been the driving forces of late. It’s been my readers. My intelligent, articulate, insightful, compassionate, amazing readers. The ones who comment, the ones who email, the ones who participate and, yes, even the ones who lurk and follow Museworthy in silence. All of them. All of YOU.

Today I get to see my niece, brother, and aunt at an impromptu get-together at my Mom’s house. It’s a beautiful day and the sun is shining. It’s a day that will surely knock the beast down a peg, and I’m grateful for that.

Before I head out, I’d like to give you two paintings. I was inspired to post them by the recent comments of my reader Lin. Her thoughts and sentiments on my last blog entry lifted my spirit, roused my inner strength, and spurred me to acknowledge something that the beast mercilessly causes you to forget – the fluctuating, unpredictable nature of life. That our personal journeys are full of doors and windows opening and closing. Peaks and valleys. Ebbs and flows. Light and darkness, and then light again. Thank you, Lin, for reminding me that I have things to live for.

I rarely post interiors on Museworthy, but these are an exceptionally appropriate visual metaphor for life’s complex navigation – glimmers of hope, unexplored spaces, and the promise of better days. They are both from the Danish artist Vilhelm Hammershoi. The first is White Doors, 1905, and the second is Dust Motes Dancing in the Sunbeams, 1900.

I’m still climbing out of this hole, refusing to give up. But I’m climbing . . . one inch at a time . . . keeping my eyes on the prize . . .

Love to everyone
xoxo

Make it Stop

Someone is out to punish me. I’m convinced of it. My god, could this have come at a worse time?? I don’t think so.

I received a letter in the mail today that my application to be a mentor in the Big Brothers/Big Sisters program has been DECLINED. I was home all day basically doing nothing, and neglected to check my mailbox until 5:00 in the afternoon. That’s classic beast apathy right there. I opened the envelope, read the letter, and just stood in my kitchen . . . stupefied. Shattered. Feeling like I was about to keel over and break – physically – into a million pieces onto the floor and lie there in busted fragments, hopefully to fucking die so I’ll be put out of my misery for good.

An online application eight weeks ago, then two phone conversations, then lengthy character referrals from four friends/co-workers, and then a grueling, very personal and intrusive two hour face-to-face interview. They were, to my understanding, trying to unearth past criminal records, drug use, a history of sexual abuse either as victim or perpetrator, a reckless driving record, spotty employment history, poor people skills, violent temperament, etc. I have NONE of those. Plus I was a teacher for six years! And yet, this reputable nonprofit organization has decided that I am UNFIT to have a young person in my charge for a mere eight hours per month. Do you have any idea how that feels? I am, in a word, devastated. I’ve been crying for hours. My eyelids are swollen to five times their normal size.

It is the strict policy of Big Brothers/Big Sisters not to disclose the reasons for an applicant’s rejection. And that’s just a splendid situation for me right now, because I’m already depressed, already struggling to pull my self-worth out of the toilet, and already suffocating under a blanket of my personal weaknesses, whether they be real or imagined. And now, I’ve been sent an overt message from these people that I, for reasons unknown to me, cannot be trusted to take an underprivileged 14 year-old girl to the museum for an afternoon, or to a yoga class, or to lunch, or to play frisbee at Sheep Meadow in Central Park, or to hear some live music at this summer’s River-to-River Festival, or to the young womens’ department at Bloomingdale’s, or for an inside tour of my brother’s music recording studio in midtown, or just for a walk and a talk. Yes, those are real things that I had planned for me and my “little sister”. I was really looking forward to it.

I am so hurt and crushed. I feel like someone has dragged barbed wire across my heart. I feel like if I were to get hit by a bus tomorrow it would be a great service to humankind.

Before I got my rejection today, I had read countless articles, discussion forums, etc from people who participated in the Big Brothers/Big Sisters program. Every one of them raved about what a rewarding and gratifying experience it was, how good it felt to make a difference in a young person’s life and be a positive role model. And now I won’t have the chance to feel any of that. Why? What’s so wrong with me? I did well on the interview, I know I did. How did I screw this up? What unforgivable, catastrophic flaw did they see in me? Good grief, do I need this now????

Apparently I have been deemed a person unsuitable to take a kid for ice cream. That’s just swell. I think my bus is waiting . . .

Precipice

If there’s any constructive thing that can come from struggling with the beast, or enduring any difficult personal times, it’s this; you discover who your true friends are. I’ll leave it at that.

Lately I’ve been relating a lot to the art of Edvard Munch, and I’m not so sure that’s a good thing. I have always been a Munch fan, and last year wrote a blog post about his famous muse Dagny Juel. But there’s a world of difference between simply admiring art for art’s sake and identifying with its themes to a degree that goes well beyond metaphor. With all due respect to the guy, if looking into Munch’s world feels like I’m looking in a mirror at my own, then I must be in deep trouble.

A new muse entered Munch’s life in 1910, after his mental breakdown and subsequent recovery in a clinic. Just 17 years old, Ingeborg Kaurin represented a new kind of model for the Norwegian artist. Instead of a female subject who serves merely as an archetype, a human paradigm for a particular myth, message, or symbol, Ingeborg was a real flesh and blood young woman. And Munch, in a departure from his pre-breakdown years, depicted her as such. She was not required to act as a player in the artist’s storytelling or assume a fictitious role. She had only to be herself. Real rather than theoretical.

A plump, full-figured peasant girl, with a long dark mane of hair, Ingeborg came to life on Munch’s canvas in swirling brushstrokes, in a setting no more theatrical than life itself and the emotions it brings. After all, that is drama enough for an affecting work of art, isn’t it? Munch was extremely fond of Ingeborg and gave her the nickname “Mosspiken”, which means “Moss girl”.

If I wanted to share a Munch painting that reflects my current mindset, I also could have posted The Scream. That would fit the bill just fine. But I’ve chosen this one instead, as it’s even more accurate. These days I could easily be the model for this painting. But it’s Ingeborg Kaurin of course. From 1913, this is Edvard Munch’s Weeping Nude.

I’m not doing well at all, my friends (as if you couldn’t tell). I apologize for being this way. I’m not achieving any relief from this beast episode and am finding it almost impossible to get out of bed in the morning. Again, I apologize to everyone