“a spirit of youth in every thing”

From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud pied April, dressed in all his trim,
Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,
That heavy Saturn laughed and leapt with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue,
Could make me any summer’s story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew:
Nor did I wonder at the lily’s white,
Nor praise the vermilion in the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
Yet seemed it winter still, and you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play.

—- Sonnet 98, William Shakespeare

Spring, by William Adolphe Bouguereau:

Rostropovich at the Berlin Wall

One morning in November of 1989, Mstislav Rostropovich was listening to the radio in his apartment in Paris when he heard a news report that crowds of freedom-hungry demonstrators were gathered at the Berlin Wall. Without hesitation, the great world-renowned cellist phoned a friend who owned a private jet and arranged to fly immediately to Berlin. When they arrived at the Wall, Rostropovich made his way to the spot known as “Checkpoint Charlie” – to him the ideal spot for an impromptu solo concert. There was only one problem – no place to sit! So Rostropovich’s friend “borrowed” a chair from one of the guards. Rostropovich sat down and began to play Bach’s Second Suite for cello, the “Sarabande’. I am absolutely in love with this powerful, remarkable photo of that moment, so much that I might even try to obtain a print of it. Our Music Monday:

I have posted before about the soul-crushing effects that communism has inflicted upon artists throughout its miserable, failed history. Rostropovich, born in Soviet Azerbaijan to a musical family, experienced those effects his entire life from the oppressive state of the Soviet Union. But he fought back every time and stood his ground in the name of free expression and individualism.

Rostropovich’s most serious “crime” was his coming to the fervent defense of his friend Alexander Solzhenitsyn, the dissident writer and Nobel Prize winner who was persecuted by the Soviet regime. Not only did Rostropovich provide shelter for Solzhenitsyn in his home, he also fired off an angry, blistering letter to the media which attacked the Soviet government’s censorship of the arts, suppression of ideas, and human rights abuses. The communist press didn’t publish the letter, obviously, but it was picked up by foreign media outlets. And then came the reprisals, the harassment, the punishments – courtesy of the state. Rostropovich and his wife Galina saw their passports confiscated. His concert tours were cancelled and his domestic appearances severely diminished. His name was purged from all programs and publications. His letters to Brezhnev went unanswered. But then, thanks to the persistent efforts of prominent Americans, namely Leonard Bernstein and Edward Kennedy, Rostropovich was allowed to leave the Soviet Union in 1974. He settled in the United States, became an American citizen, and served as the musical director of the National Symphony Orchestra in Washington, D.C. Rostropovich was free. A courageous man and gifted musician, liberated from the tyranny of a cruel and wretched ideology.

We are very lucky to have this rare footage of Mstislav Rostropovich playing his cello at the Berlin Wall. In the days before iPhones, who could imagine?

To Model, To Prosper

I have been really lucky with this prodigious year of art modeling. Seems like almost every day I’m getting an email or a text, returning a call, sitting with my calendar open on my lap as I write down a booking. I’m not certain but I think that this period – from last September to the present – has bestowed my most thriving and steady work schedule. Just today I booked six dates! To what can we attribute this current bounty? Many factors I suppose. An active art scene. My own proactive efforts to maintain contacts and connections. And maybe a little of my reputation as a reliable, dedicated art model who people seem to enjoy working with. Go figure

I share this with all of you not to be boastful, but to counterbalance previous blog posts in which I’ve expressed the frustrations and unpredictability of freelance work. It’s nice when those of us who don’t have a steady 9 – 5 job can claim a stretch of consistency in our employment. Steady work is good. Steady independent work is especially good. Steady independent work when you love what you do is as close to professional fulfillment as you can get. And I love what I do. However, I take nothing for granted. I am wise enough to appreciate it and enjoy it now, while it lasts, and anticipate the imminent summer season which slows down considerably.

It is most fitting that I salute my thriving art modeling schedule with an artist who equally appreciates a full plate of pursuits, my dear friend Daniel Maidman. Last Monday, Daniel managed to find time amid his many creative endeavors, such as writing for the Huffington Post, to draw me at Spring Studio. I was so happy to see him! We had terrific fun and, as always, he created lovely figure drawings of me:

Irish Joy

Ok, so I’m a day late with a St. Patrick’s Day post. And I have absolutely no excuse. I didn’t go to the parade, I didn’t drink beer or whisky, and I didn’t make out with any Irish guys. However, I did tweet some James Joyce, so that should count for something

Today is “the day after” and it’s so beautiful here in New York! Those with hangovers can’t enjoy it, the poor bastards. I’m heading to the park in a few minutes for an invigorating run. But before I go, how about a little art? An Irish painter of course. George W. Joy was born in Dublin in 1844. His work demonstrates an attention to detail, and frequently depicts narrative subjects drawn from historical and literary sources. I chose this piece, The Bayswater Omnibus. Nice composition. The well-to-do woman in the middle, in the green dress, holding flowers and an umbrella, is the focal point. She contrasts with the woman next to her, a poor mother huddled with her two children. Perhaps Joy was making a statement about class disparities in 19th century London:

I just realized something; James JOYCE. George JOY. Joy abounds in Irish surnames. Interesting!

Model at Rest

I have come to put artists into two categories; the ones who remain aware and watchful of the model during breaks, and the ones who don’t. Not taking a jab at the latter group, mind you. Artists need the breaks too. They have to stretch and go to the bathroom like everyone else! They also need to to take their eyes off the model for a few minutes. After all, a break means just that – a break, for all of us, when posing and drawing are temporarily replaced with coffee runs, potato chip snacking, and phone calls. You know the drill. But occasionally, an artist will have a spontaneous burst of inspiration at the sight of the model at rest. Downtime, in all situations, produces wonderfully relaxed, unselfconscious body language. As art models our function is to pose, hold the pose, and know at all times that we’re being carefully observed. Now I can’t speak for all models, but I don’t mind it one bit if an artist “steals” a non-posing moment from me and captures it in a quick sketch. And I think most artists would agree that some of the best poses are not “poses” at all, but the model – or friend, or loved one, or stranger in public even – caught in a natural moment. I often wonder how many New Yorkers don’t realize that they have been drawn on the subway by surreptitious sketchers. Believe me, it happens every day.

Last Monday at the New York Academy of Art, the class monitor Daniel Esquivia Zapata drew me while we were on a break. I was unaware he was doing so because, as you can see, I was absorbed in my Blackberry, reading emails and a plethora of nonsense on Twitter. I spotted the drawing afterwards and complimented Danny, who then generously offered it to me. Yay! Thought I’d share it here:

California Trumpets, Brooklyn Violins

My father is going to be a subject on this blog for the second post in a row. But this time he will be alive in a family memory, not in my distressed drawings of his grave. This story relates somewhat to a superb video I have chosen for Music Monday about the great craftsmen who make musical instruments. But first, the Hajian misadventures.

In the early 1970s our family took a vacation to California. While we were out there my dad, a professional trumpet player, wanted to visit the shop of Domenick Calicchio, an Italian immigrant and well-respected maker of fine handcrafted trumpets and other horns. Perfectly understandable. If my brother and I (nine and five respectively) were getting Disneyland and the San Diego Zoo, and my mother was getting museum visits and scenic drives up the Pacific coast, my father was surely entitled to meet a trumpet craftsman as his must-see California vacation priority. So we made our way to a less-than-spectacular section of North Hollywood. It was hot as hell that day I remember. My dad went into Calicchio’s place ready to meet the man and place an order for a horn. My mom, my brother Chris and I waited in the rental car, mistakenly assuming my dad would take no longer than 20 or 30 minutes, 40 minutes tops. But we waited. And waited. And waited. Bored out of our minds, hot and uncomfortable, stranded in a part of Hollywood in which there was absolutely nothing to do. No place to walk, no sights to see, nothing to eat! We got restless fast, especially my mother for whom patience is not a virtue. The three of us started to go nuts. How long is this taking??? It’s been over two hours!!! Mom, can we leave yet??! Where’s Daddy???!!  In Mom’s defense, the woman was in hell. Trapped with two young children in the days when you couldn’t just stick a video game or portable DVD player in a kid’s hands to keep them occupied. The whole situation sucked. My brother went in to see what was going on. It turns out that Dad was having a marvelous time, talking trumpets with old man Calicchio and chatting with other trumpet players who were hanging out, comparing notes about brass, mouthpieces, etc. Musician stuff. Good stuff. Dad stuff.

My father was not a fast-paced guy. He didn’t like to rush or be rushed. He enjoyed conversing and bonding with people who interested him and could spend hours doing so. And he always made the most of unique opportunities. He knew he’d probably never be in Los Angeles again, so why not savor his time in Domenick Calicchio’s shop? That’s how his mind worked.

But friends, let me tell you. I loved my Dad deeply, as you know, but he made us wait so long it was literally HOURS! In hot LA weather. With nothing to do! We were going batshit crazy. It was freaking torture! What we should have done, in retrospect, was tell Dad we’d just leave him there while we took the car and drove around to better parts of LA. We’d pick him up later. But you know when you’re waiting for something and you’re afraid to leave because you think it will only be “another 20 minutes”, so you might as well just stay and wait it out? That kind of reasoning? I think that’s the trap we fell into. Also, we didn’t want to do any sightseeing without him. We had to wait for Dad. He was our guy.

My favorite part of that episode was how completely pissed my Mom was. She’s still pissed to this day. Bring up the Calicchio thing and she’ll say, “Oh god, please! We wasted an entire day of our vacation at that place!! Your father took forever!!”

Keep in mind that my father was just placing orders for horns. When he finally came out he didn’t have any instruments with him. Only receipts for purchases. The custom made trumpets – four I think – were shipped weeks later to our house in New York City. Dad said they were fantastic and well worth the time and visit. Oh sure, to him they were worth it! What about us? The innocent family he left stranded in a rental car in Hollywood??!! By the way, the Calicchio company is still in existence. They moved years ago from SoCal to Tulsa, Oklahoma. See a photo of old man Domenick, now deceased, on their website.

Last point before we move on. My Dad made it up to us days later when we drove up to San Francisco. He took us all on a thrilling drive on the steep, hairpin turns of Lombard Street. Chris and I were laughing and screaming like lunatics, and my father had so much fun amusing his children with crazy driving. It was awesome. We loved it, he loved it. All was forgiven for the Calicchio chapter.

Ok. On to our video. Filmmaker Dustin Cohen profiles Brooklyn-based violin maker Sam Zygmuntowicz. His commitment to craft, music, and his valued clients is evident in this excellent profile. It’s also comforting to know that the great tradition of skilled instrument-making is alive and well in this day and age. Domenick Calicchio may be gone, but the artistry of his specialized field lives. We transition from brass to strings. Enjoy this clip!

Sketching for Dad

Hey gang. I apologize for not posting all week. Yesterday, March 8th, would have been my father’s 80th birthday had he lived. He died in 2004, at the age of 72. My Mom, my brother, and I went to visit his grave to bring him love and birthday wishes. It was a tough experience, sunny gorgeous 68 degree weather notwithstanding. Today I woke up in a really crummy mood and it’s showing no signs of improving.

I took a picture of Dad’s headstone with the flowers we placed there – yellow tulips and blue hyacinths. This afternoon I tried to sketch it, perhaps as a way of working through my lingering grief. I don’t know if artists avoid working when they’re emotionally miserable, but I know I can do better than this if I’m in a more positive state. Or maybe my somber mood is precisely the reason I felt the urge to sketch this scene in the first place?

You see, we never got to say goodbye to my father because he died suddenly, out of the blue. That reality has always tormented me. With feelings of sadness and frustration, I threw down some watercolor here, just to capture the general shapes and colors. There’s a large bush next to Dad’s grave on the right side, just so you know why there’s a mess of green wash there! In real life it creates a beautiful cool shade, but I didn’t have the presence of mind to try to represent it here.

Then I tried a charcoal and pastel drawing. This time I began with some semblance of a plan but I lost my focus, started crying, and gave up. The ground at the base of the headstone is uneven, so at least I managed that detail. The upper left should have indicated other headstones in the the distance, but I made a smudgy mess and didn’t bother to fix it.

I hope you’re all doing better than I am moodwise. I’ll be back real soon, in much cheerier spirits I promise!

Fleur de Lis

Hello friends! Happy Sunday! And what a beautiful Sunday it is here in NYC. I hope this blog post finds you all well.

A few days ago I found a little time in my busy schedule to stop in to the Metropolitan Museum for a quick visit. It was a Saturday, which at the Met means crowds. Major crowds. But no amount of crowds could stop me from seeing and enjoying the newly renovated American Wing Galleries, something I’ve been looking forward to for months. A more extensive blog post will probably be forthcoming. Until then I thought I’d share this one lovely work that is on display in the collection. The artist is Robert Reid, an American Impressionist painter who was born in Stockbridge, Massachusetts and studied in Boston and then New York. As with most American artists of the 20th century, Reid’s bio invariably mentions places where I have also worked as an art model. He studied at the Art Students League and later became a member of the National Academy of Design. By the early part of the century, Reid was focused on mural projects which might explain my attraction to his style. I adore mural painting and large panel works. On my trip to Boston last December, I was in heaven while viewing Sargent’s murals at the Boston Public Library. What I should have done was also visit Reid’s Paul Revere mural at the State House. I think another trip to Boston is in order!

This enchanting painting by Reid is called Fleur de Lis, ca. 1885 – 1900. I think one of the reasons it struck me was the exquisite color (I love purple) and depiction of irises, and the realization that those flowers will soon be blooming with the coming of spring! Can’t wait! I took this photo and decided not to crop out the frame, but it enlarges beautifully with a couple of clicks:

I also recorded the wall text for this piece that might be of interest. From the Met curators, this painting “suggests an analogy between his female figure and the fragile irises that surround her . . . His combining of a high-keyed palette and expressive brushwork with allegorical references reflects American artists’ concurrent interest, during the 1890s, in Impressionism and the universal imagery associated with the mural movement.”

A nice collection of Reid’s work can be found at Wikimedia Commons.