Gorky at Philly

Currently on view at The Philadelphia Museum of Art is an exhibit titled “Arshile Gorky – A Retrospective”. Although I rarely leave New York, I’m seriously considering making the trip down to Philly to see this show before it closes on January 10th.

People in the art world mention Gorky to me all the time. Why? Because like Gorky, I am Armenian. Obviously, our respective experiences with, and understanding of, our Armenian “identity” are vastly different. But because there are so few of us, both in the United States and around the world, all Armenians feel some degree of a bond with each other, whether ethnic, cultural, or political in nature.

Although Gorky is correctly classified as an “American painter”, he was born in Armenia, under the Ottoman Empire, in the village of Khorgom, along the shores of Lake Van. His birth name was Vostanik Manoog Adoian (pronounced ah-doy-an). Like many ethnic immigrants to America, he later changed his name and adopted “Gorky”, in honor of the Russian writer Maxim Gorky, whom he greatly admired.

Arshile Gorky:

In 1910, Gorky’s father fled to America to avoid conscription into the Turkish army, leaving Arshile, his three sisters, and their mother to fend for themselves. With the start of the barbaric Turkish genocide against the Armenians in 1915 (an event the Turkish government refuses to acknowledge to this day), Arshile and his family fled the Van region and endured many hardships. The defining moment of young Arshile’s life took place in 1919, when his beloved mother, Shushanig, died of starvation in his arms. The harrowing emotional pain and psychological trauma of that experience would haunt him forever, and inform his art in adulthood – art that is distinctive for its palpable mood of anguish and suffering.

In one of his many letters to his sister Vartoosh, Gorky wrote:

As Armenians of Van…. We lived and experienced it. The blood of our people at the hands of the Turks, the massacres…. Our death march, our relatives and dearest friends dying . . . before our eyes. The loss of our homes, the destruction of our country by the Turks, Mother’s starvation in my arms. Vartoosh dear, my heart sinks now in even discussing it.

Gorky arrived at Ellis Island in 1920 when he was 16. He studied art sporadically, first in Boston and then in New York City at the Grand Central School of Art, where he became a highly regarded instructor. Categorized as an Abstract Expressionist, Arshile Gorky drew influences from a range of artistic genres, including Impressionism, Cubism, and Surrealism, and his works have been likened to those of Cezanne, Miró, and Picasso.

Without a doubt, one of Gorky’s most famous, and most personal, works, this is The Artist and his Mother, which he created from an old black and white photograph:

Gorky did achieve recognition during his days in New York, participating in shows at MoMA, the New School, and the Whitney Museum of American Art which was a consistent supporter of his. Gorky also earned great admiration and respect from his peers, such as Willem de Kooning and André Breton. But the critical praise did not exempt Gorky from financial struggles, as the economy of the Great Depression was not exactly conducive for art sales.

In 1941, Gorky married Agnes Magruder and moved to Connecticut. Working in a studio in a converted barn, Gorky entered the most mature and prolific period of his life, creating some of his most acclaimed abstract works, among them Garden in Sochi. Inspired by his childhood memories of the family garden back in Armenia, Gorky recalled a beautiful tree that grew on the property, a tree with extraordinary branches. Considered a “holy tree”, villagers would tear off pieces of their clothes and tie them to the branches. Over time, the fabric strips accumulated, dangling from everywhere and blowing gently in the wind. Noted for its biomorphic, gestural shapes, and borne out of wistful memory and longing, this is Gorky’s Garden in Sochi, from 1942:

Tragically, Arshile Gorky was never able to overcome the severity of his inner torment and emotional scars, and a series of terrible misfortunes in his later years only compounded his misery. A fire in his studio which destroyed many paintings and drawings, surgery for colon cancer, the acrimonious breakup of his marriage, and injury in a car accident which caused a fractured back and neck, all drove him to the breaking point, to where life was no longer bearable. On July 21, 1948, Arshile Gorky hung himself in his home in Sherman, Connecticut. He was 44 years old.

For those of you interested in finding out more about Gorky and the Phildelphia exhibit, I encourage you to read this excellent article from the California Literary Review. I also recommend the Gorky biography page on Brain Juice. While you guys check out those links, I’ll be over on MapQuest finding my route to Philly

Նո մորե պաին, մյ Արմենիան բրոտհեր. Նու յոու արե ֆրեե. Պեացե.

25 Footsteps

One street. One block on one street. One hour on one block on one street. The disparity of modern society, the cavernous socio-economic gulf of big city life, smashed into my consciousness today like a giant frying pan. In a glaring microcosm. The day before Thanksgiving. Very fitting.

Around 4:30 on this damp, drizzly Wednesday, I lugged bags of donation items down to the Bowery Mission. Obediently following the requests on their webpage, I brought towels, linens, scarves and warm socks. Upon my arrival, I realized that I had chosen the worst possible day to drop off. The Mission was in the midst of preparing and setting up for pre-Thanksgiving dinner, which is served Wednesday night. Exhausted, aggravated from having done my shopping in midtown (stupid), and with wet, rain-soaked strands of hair pasted against my cheek, I went hobbling in with my giant shopping bags. Dedicated, harried Mission workers rushed around and whooshed past me, trying to keep the aims of efficiency and organization in their sights. From what I could see, they were doing a superb job of it.

“Can I help you with those?”. I turned to see who was talking to me. He was young, cute, energetic, wearing a t-shirt with no jacket on a chilly November day.
“Yes! Thank you!” I said, out of breath and handing him my heaviest shopping bag.
“Are these donation drop-offs?”
“Yes. But you’re all so busy! I think I came on a bad day. You’re serving dinner tonight.” Embarassed laughter.
“No, don’t be ridiculous! It’s fine. Donations are welcome any day, anytime.” A warm smile from the Mission worker.

He escorted me to the main desk, where the man running it was just getting off the phone. Cute Mission guy walked off. Bummer When desk man was done with his phone call he attended to me. I lifted my drop offs over to him.
“Oh this is wonderful ma’am!” he said as he took my bags. ” Just wonderful!”
“Well it’s just towels, twin sheet sets, washcloths, scarves, socks. All brand new.”
“Ma’am, thank you, thank you.” Desk man was sweet as can be. Warm. Solicitous. Glowing with the spirit of compassion and good will. “God bless you,” he said.” God bless you and your family. You’re an angel.”

An angel? Gee, I don’t know about that!! A reasonably fortunate person with a sense of moral obligation maybe. But not an angel. That’s waaay too much pressure!

The desk man’s phone rang. He answered it, but signaled for me to wait. Naturally, I eavesdropped on his conversation. I’m a compulsive eavesdropper! “Yes, we have all the food for tonight, but thank you.” he said to the caller. “Yes, we’re good for tonight. But we take food donations anytime.”
Another “angel” on the phone. Nice. Then desk man hung up, and he was free to give me his attention once again.

“Sir, I’m sorry, I know you’re busy, ” I said. “But I was wondering if you’re still looking for volunteer tutors? I saw on the website that . . .”
“Yes, YES!” he interrupted. “Yes, ma’am we are! Absolutely.”
“Great!”
He wrote down the number to call and handed it to me. As I folded the paper and tucked it in my wallet, I heard my own voice in my head, saying gleefully, “Take THAT Big Brothers/Big Sisters! Hahahahahaha!!!!!”

So my donations were all dropped off and my tutoring phone number procured. I was ready to leave, but had the impulse to ask one more question of darling desk guy.
“Do you have enough hands for tonight? I can stay if you want.”
“Oh yes, ma’am, we do. Thank you though. We’re good. More than enough help.”
“Ok, good. Just thought I’d ask.”

Just as well, since I already had plans to meet my cousin Armen at Whole Foods for a bite to eat. So after wishing Happy Thanksgiving to everyone around me, I left the Bowery Mission and went on my way.

Twenty-five steps. Although I didn’t actually count, my rough estimate is 25 steps. I walked 25 footsteps up the street from the historic 130 year-old Bowery Mission to the spanking new Whole Foods. Sleek, clean, gleaming, shimmering Whole Foods. When I stepped through the entrance at Houston Street, I was immediately surrounded with shiny, glistening piles of produce – red tomatoes, deep green peppers, mangoes and avocados, bananas and pomegranates, fresh cut and pre-washed salad greens, bosc pears, juicy lemons, crates packed with clementines, barely a dent, puncture, or brown spot to be found on anything, everything marked with little handwritten signs that advertised healthy food pedigrees, like “Organic”, “Farm fresh”, “Grown in Spain”, “Imported”. The best of nature’s bounty. The elite. This was Whole Foods. The Neiman Marcus of food markets. Everything high-priced. Everything well-stocked and ripe and impeccably presented. The fruits and vegetables stacked perfectly in geometric structures that resembled the Egyptian pyramids.

The store was swarming with customers. Impossibly good-looking customers. Gorgeous men and women in trendy, fashionable clothes, equipped with iPhones and Calvin Klein jackets and cashmere scarves and umbrellas printed with Monet’s Waterlillies. Dropping item after item into their baskets and carts. “Organically-grown” this, “no artificial preservatives” that. “Gluten-free”, “no GMOs”, “no fillers”. I witnessed a customer asking a Whole Foods employee where the flaxseed was because he couldn’t find it anywhere. Another was looking for rice milk.

My cousin finally arrived, 15 minutes late. We hugged and kissed and play tickled. Then we went up to the second floor to sit and talk. And we talked and talked, over briyani and roasted vegetables and vegan blueberry pie. We discussed life and loves, family and futures. We laughed. We bitched. We laughed again. We were surrounded by sexy downtowners, sitting at round tables with their laptops and lattes, slurping down wild mushroom soup, poking at sushi, and perusing the NY Times. When Armen took a minute to answer a phone call, I looked around at our environment and thought, this is surreal. I was just at the Bowery Mission less than an hour ago. It’s 25 footsteps away. And here I was, having a jaunty time on a holiday eve in the Bowery Whole Foods, which is possibly the newest, hippest, most lavish Whole Foods in the country.

This is Thanksgiving where I live. This is Thanksgiving in my city. My hometown. Just 25 footsteps separate the homeless from the privileged. The downtrodden from the entitled. Generic donated food from specialty purchased food. Mass-produced discount clothes from designer fine fabrics.

Before Armen and I left Whole Foods, I stopped to talk to a Whole Foods employee. I inquired whether they take a bulk item order and deliver it. A bulk item like canned beans, carrots, corn, etc. He said yes, and that all I’d have to do is buy a case, give my name and address to the cashier for delivery.

“Ok, but not my address”, I clarified. “The address for delivery right?”.
“You mean you don’t want it delivered to you? Where are you having it delivered?”
“Down the street.”
“Um, ok,” he said, a bit bewildered. “Down the street where?’
“To the Mission.”
“Oh! The Bowery Mission?”
“Yes,”
“Oh of course. You know, that doesn’t even qualify as a ‘delivery’. We just have have a kid run it over there.”
“So you’ve done it before?”
“Sure lots of times. It’s so close.”
“Yes it is close” I said. “About 25 steps.”

Happy Thanksgiving everyone.
Peace and blessings to you all . . . .

Late November

I’ve concluded that autumn is the best time of year for nature photography. Either that, or I simply had a very good day in terms of inspiration, stimulation, and visual perception. My Sunday stroll through my local park produced some pretty decent photos, and I found myself genuinely excited and enthusiastic over the subject matter I encountered. I should mention, however, that “excitement” for me translates into dying leaves, hollowed-out, decaying tree trunks, moss, bark, and depleted branches. I confess that I love that stuff. Maybe I’m weird, but to me there’s something extraordinarily beautiful about the end-of-life cycle in nature. Things shriveling up, drying out, breaking apart. I look at such sights, and I don’t see it as disintegration. I see it as teeming with life, perhaps because these organic forms are undergoing a transformative stage, which is characteristically active and vital. Reconfiguring. Adapting. That is the essence of life.

If any of these photos strikes your fancy, please click and enlarge, as it makes all the difference. Much more detailed and vivid. Besides, I had my digital-macro setting on so you must take advantage of it!

Equally majestic with or without leaves, this is the most kick-ass tree in the park:

These seed pods are everywhere, but I don’t know which trees produce them:

Truffles anyone?

I LOVE decaying tree stumps. Love them! They’re like sculpture to me. The more decaying the better:

This little girl was piling leaves and branches on this fallen tree limb:

I think moss is one of the most awesome things on the planet. Look at this lush carpet, bringing bright green beauty to an otherwise drab dirt pile:

These two little girls were playing hide-and-seek with their father. So cute:

Our softball field, officially on hiatus for the winter. Perched in the chain link fence behind home plate, this leaf will watch over it until spring:

And last but not least, my affectionate tribute to my dear friend Fred Hatt, who recently published an exquisite, impassioned, life-affirming blog post about weeds. If you haven’t seen it, you must!
Here’s my photographic capture of weeds. I think Fred’s are a little better!

Astronomical Art – The Many Moons of Jupiter

While I was skimming rather quickly through art images the other day, I paused when I came across this 1532 painting by Correggio. I glimpsed an unusual scenario taking place but had to stop and make sure I really saw what I thought I saw. Is that a woman having sex with a cloud?? Well on closer inspection, I found that my initial impression was indeed true. She IS having sex with a cloud! And she seems to be really, really enjoying it

The painting is titled Jupiter and Io, and it depicts one of the many narratives of Greek and Roman mythology. Jupiter was the king of the gods, the big kahuna of deities, master of sky and thunder, the invincible badass who ruled everything and got whatever he wanted. Jupiter’s Greek counterpart was Zeus, which might be more familiar to some.

When Jupiter first spotted Io, a beautiful river goddess, it was lust at first sight. Nothing, not even Jupiter’s jealous wife Juno, would keep him from having Io, the object of his sexual desire. The clever god used all his omnipotent powers to make it happen. As Io rested along the riverbank, Jupiter morphed into a thick, dark, billowing cloud. In this camouflaged form, Jupiter enveloped Io, kissed her, and made love to her. Mission accomplished. Piece of cake when you’re the “king of gods”.

In 1610, Io was given immortality when the great astronomer Galileo discovered the four moons of the planet Jupiter. Although they are commonly known as the Galilean moons, they are individually named after the lovers and companions of the mythological Jupiter: Io, Europa, Ganymede, and Callisto.

Clearly not as erotic as the Correggio piece, this NASA spacecraft image of the cosmic Jupiter and Io is equally, if not more, visually stunning. Io may be a mere satellite to her master planet Jupiter, but she is volatile and temperamental. With 400 active volcanoes, Io’s surface is distinguished by her lava flows, sulfur plumes, and mountain peaks that reach altitudes higher than Mount Everest.

Image Credit: NASA/Johns Hopkins University Applied Physics Laboratory/Southwest Research Institute/Goddard Space Flight Center

Correggio wasn’t the only painter who exalted Jupiter and his many conquests. Peter Paul Rubens also tackled the myth, but selected Ganymede as his subject instead of Io. The Ganymede of mythology was a Trojan prince and a mortal. Handsome and youthful, Ganymede, like Io, was spotted by Jupiter, who once again found himself completely infatuated. Like the covetous god that he was, Jupiter decided to possess the young Ganymede. Again he used his trusty mutation strategy, only this time instead of a cloud, he transformed into an eagle. He swooped down and captured young Ganymede, carried him up to the heavens, and made him cupbearer of the gods.

This is Rubens’ portrayal of The Abduction of Ganymede:

The Ganymede of astronomy is an attractive figure in a different way. It is the largest moon in the solar system -larger in diameter than the planet Mercury – and the only satellite known to have a magnetic field. This is Ganymede alongside Jupiter:

The Jupiter of the galaxy is not a terrestrial planet, but a giant orb of gas. A floating sphere of hydrogen and helium. It is also 2 1/2 times the mass of all the other planets of the solar system combined. It’s a big bastard. A standout. Vaporous. Charismatic. Turbulent. Surrounded by loyal minions. Much like it’s mythological namesake, don’t you think?

Jupiter and Thetis, by Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres, 1811:

The gods really do live in the skies.

Gesture Boogie

Ask me to do quick poses and I am a happy girl. I get to move and bend, stretch and gesture, twirl and pivot, and stomp and slide across the platform. Because I own that sucker. The timer ticks away, and I have but a fleeting one minute to make my point. A mere sixty seconds to show everyone what I’m made of. Not a problem. One minute is all I need. Besides, I do well under pressure. I’m not a time glutton. Give me whatever you’ve got and I’ll just do my thing until “beep-beep-beep!”. Next pose. “beep-beep-beep!”. Next pose.

All the relevant info on the following quick sketches is this: me, Fred, and Monday morning at Spring Studio.
Cheers!

Remembering Our Inner Child

It was entertaining, educational, adorable, innocent, playful, and fun. It was Sesame Street, the groundbreaking show in children’s television programming. It debuted on PBS on November 10th, 1969, and this week Sesame Street is commemorating its 40th anniversary. I LOVED Sesame Street. My brother and I were regular viewers. Our parents loved it too!

Maybe because its been around for so long, we forget what a wonderful show Sesame Street is in terms of message and substance. Along with the smiles, jokes, laughter, and memorable  Muppet characters sprung from the brilliant creative mind of Jim Henson, Sesame Street consistently promoted lessons of tolerance, compassion, and acceptance. The show has had its detractors over the years, mostly ultra-conservatives who have accused the show of having a “liberal agenda”. (Oh god, someone make it stop)

I think we’ve gone way too far with scrutiny in our culture. Legitimate criticism is one thing, nitpicking is another. In this crass, snarky, cynical age of Family Guy and South Park, it seems rather petty to criticize an uplifiting show like Sesame Street for depicting a character riding a bike without a helmet Let’s get some perspective here folks.

Sesame Street was, and always will be, a cultural icon. The program’s fundamental goal was to encourage children to learn, to be the best citizens they can be, to strive for a better world, and to value friendship and community. Those are the lessons I remember. Happy Anniversary Sesame Street!

The Chawed Rosin has a great post honoring Sesame Street’s 40th with animation and audio. Definitely check it out.

Laughing and learning is a terrific combination. Here’s a vintage Sesame Street clip of the Cookie Monster singing “C is for Cookie”. C is also for “Claudia”, but nevermind  

Have a great weekend everyone!!

Art Model Funnies, Part 7

Hellooo, helloooooo! How is everyone? I’m fine, just fighting off a teensy sore throat/cough. Nothing major. I hope my usual concoctions of herbal and natural remedies will do the trick. A lot of teas and apple cider vinegar is involved. It’s chilly here in NYC. Brrr! But it is November after all, and winter is just around the corner.

I have some more cartoons to share for the next installment of Art Model Funnies Hope they make you smile.

Professional female artist’s models are savvy enough to know that there are a lot of creeps out there, and that some guys who claim to be “artists” actually have ulterior motives. This cartoon by Rex May-Baloo says it all:

The model for the Venus de Milo confronts her past. Very funny from Ian Baker:

Really cute one by Joseph Farris:

And as always, I save my favorite for last. I’m thinking that if Rodin were alive today he would get a kick out of this. I love it. From Harley Schwadron:

Wordplay

contemplation |ˌkäntəmˈplā sh ən|
noun
the action of looking thoughtfully at something for a long time
• deep reflective thought

introspection |ˌintrəˈspek sh ən|
noun
the examination or observation of one’s own mental and emotional processes

pensive |ˈpensiv|
adjective
engaged in, involving, or reflecting deep or serious thought

ruminate |ˈroōməˌnāt|
verb [ intrans. ]
think deeply about something

soul-searching
noun
deep and anxious consideration of one’s emotions and motives or of the correctness of a course of action.

Oooh, that last one is heavy. “Soul-searching”. “Deep and anxious consideration”. “Correctness of a course of action”. Yikes. That’s almost scary

I have this beautiful pencil drawing of me by my friend Jean Marcellino, and am so moved by how well she captured my pensive pose at Spring Studio the other day. In my ridiculous effort to be cute with post titles, I considered many words that could appropriately describe the mood of this piece. And I still couldn’t decide. Guess I should have contemplated longer! Ha, ha, ha . . . HA . . HA!

While I am personally partial to the movement and challenges of short poses, I understand that a long pose carries its own advantages. For the artist it provides the opportunity to do a thorough examination of the subject and create a fully-realized finished drawing. For the model, it’s an opportunity for undisturbed introspection. An excursion through your own thoughts, issues, and life questions. We put ourselves “in the zone”. After all, we have to hold still, keep our gaze fixed, and stay focused. Enter the soul searching goblins. The pesky demons of insecurity and worry. The existential wave of your life that accosts you during your stillness. You are, essentially, trapped. Nowhere to run, and definitely nowhere to hide!

Ah, but the mind is not always so heavy during a long pose. There are times when I use the tranquility of a long pose to think about mundane things: errands, phone calls, reminders to fill my Metrocard or make a hair salon appointment, buy cranberry juice, and catch up on emails. Really boring stuff.

However this particular day at Spring Studio was a bona-fide heavy-duty contemplation day. But you don’t have to take my word for it. Just look at Jean’s elegant and sensitive drawing and you can feel my ruminative state. As for the descriptive word? Well, Jean nailed it perfectly with her drawing title. She calls it Musing Muse. “Musing”! That’s the word. And here it is on Museworthy Thanks Jean!

Troubled Waters

I don’t know what happened these past 48 hours but I just suddenly fell into gloom. Between the anxious thoughts in my head and the sadness in my heart, I can’t get a good night’s sleep. I’m agitated and unhappy And I think I have ugly, sleep-deprived bags under my eyes. A lot of this (but not all) is due to my feelings for J and not being able to act on those feelings. It’s very difficult when you harbor enormous passion for someone and are forced to contain it. Because of circumstances. I was coping pretty well for about a week. But now I’m back to struggling. I wish I could just hear his voice. I really miss the soothing sound of his voice . . .

Seated Nude by Max Pechstein:

Martyrdom

Happy All Saints Day, everyone!!!!!!

:silence:

Ahem. I SAID . . . Happy All Saints Day, everyone!!

:sigh:

Hello? Anyone? Bueller? Bueller?

Okay, so I forgot to post something for Halloween and now I’m trying to compensate by drumming up excitement for All Saints Day. After all, today is November 1st, a sacred and spiritual day in western Christian tradition that most people overlook. Probably because there’s no candy involved.

But you know what? I don’t care. I’m gonna go ahead and acknowledge All Saints Day. Fuck Halloween. <— that's right, I said it. Halloween is nothing more than an opportunity for the neighborhood kids to throw eggs and shaving cream at peoples' houses and steal pumpkins off front stoops. The latter actually happened to me, can you believe it? I came home from work yesterday around 6:00 to discover that my big beautiful pumpkin had been snatched. Juvenile delinquents all of them

Religion, especially Christianity, has inspired an enormous amount of great art. Too much to even comprehend. The canon of saints in particular has provided some truly stunning works, much of it created, not surprisingly, between the 15th and 17th centuries, when the Bible and religion was the dominant subject matter of many painters. I’ve selected just a few to showcase here but there are literally hundreds.

Saint Peter was one of Jesus’s earliest disciples and a major figure in Christian history. From the Greek painter El Greco, this is The Tears of Saint Peter from 1607:

Saint Cecilia was the patron saint of musicians and church music. The female artist Artemisia Gentileschi painted a few versions of her. This one is titled St Cecilia Playing a Lute, 1616:

Even a non-devout person like myself has a “favorite” saint. Oh yes indeed. St. Francis of Assisi is my man because he was the patron saint of animals and spoke out for kindness and respect toward all our nonhuman friends on earth. His notable quote on the subject reads as follows:

If you have men who will exclude any of God’s creatures from the shelter of compassion and pity, you will have men who will deal likewise with their fellow men.

My kind of guy And based on this painting, he was pretty cute too! This excellent 1658 work is by Francisco Zurbarán:

In a couple of weeks, on November 25th, Catholic churches will observe the Feast of Saint Catherine. A nice addition to the rituals and services of that day would be the inclusion of this magnificent painting by the great Caravaggio. Incredible values and composition, this is Saint Catherine:

Paolo Veronese depicts a very intense scene here, one that really communicates the agony and suffering of a saint’s life. Year 1553, this is The Temptation of St Anthony:

Auguste Rodin explored sainthood as well with his scuplture Saint John the Baptist Preaching:

I warmly invite my Catholic readers to comment and share the significance of the saints, a topic I’m certain you can all discuss much more articulately than me, as theology is not my strongest subject.

All Saints by Fra Angelico:

Peace and love to all . . . of all faiths and non-faiths.

Claudia
xo