Breathing Spell

Yoo hoo! Hello? Does anyone run this blog? Anyone??

Hey gang. Really sorry about the stagnancy. I’m here, I assure you. I hope you all had a wonderful week because mine kind of sucked. Stress, tension, and painful frustration stemming from personal matters, life decisions, and shattered expectations. Anyway, I don’t want to elaborate. All I can do is try to make sense of it all and get my mojo back. I miss my mojo

On the art modeling front, I’ve reached the annual break in my work schedule that comes in late May. School semesters have ended which means students can say goodbye to teachers and classmates, hang their end-of-year art shows, go through final critiques, and look forward to a well-deserved vacation. The schools will close for a bit and regroup for summer sessions which will be up and running in June. What does all this mean for us art models? It means we get a little break for ourselves. With the exception of one gig at a local art center, I have no jobs booked for two weeks. After all these years of modeling I still haven’t gotten used to the sight of so many consecutive blank spaces in my calendar. It’s weird. So much free time dancing before my eyes, what will I do with myself? Haha.

Edward Hopper, Interior (Model Reading), 1925:

One activity I’d like to do is take a drive up to Woodstock. I haven’t been up that way in quite a while and there’s a farm sanctuary there that I’ve been donating money to for many years. Might be nice to visit and say hello to the animals. And of course, Woodstock is great town in upstate New York with lovely shops and art galleries. There is much to do and see in good old Woodstock.

In the meantime, I’ll be around, being lazy some days and productive on other days. And blogging for sure. So I’ll see you all very soon.

Claudia  xo

Love My Momma

MoThERsDaY MOTHERSDAY MOtHeRsDaY MothersDay MothersDay

M 0 t h e r s D a y !!!!

I have no idea why I typed all those variations but it felt good. Just having a little fun. And screw the apostrophe!!

Mother’s Day matters a lot here on Museworthy . It matters because this blogger’s mother is a splendid, warm-hearted, generous, artistic, and joyful lady. Many of you are familiar with her, either from real life, my frequent references to her, or her own voice in comments. She’s Elaine, and she’s awesome. She also adores Mother’s Day, not because she expects to be lauded but because her children are the greatest joy in her life. My Mom is one of those women who is thoroughly happy to have “mother” define her identity. Given her two fabulous kids who can blame her?

Choosing artwork for Mother’s Day is easy as pie. In a word, Degas. Mom’s favorite. And a Degas pastel is the ultimate because of Mom’s love for the medium.

By Edgar Degas, this is Four Dancers from 1902. Love you Mom! Happy Mother’s Day.

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Soothing the Wounded Soul

Since the previous post generated thoughtful feedback about coping with news of our troubled world, the time seems right to share a video that I’ve kept bookmarked for a while. Trinity Grace Church brings us two figurative artists, Joshua LaRock and Michael Klein, who discuss their chosen roles in the art community, the responsibility they feel to celebrate beauty, grace, and humanity, and push back against some of the unfortunate effects brought on by postmodernism. Though the men espouse a Christian worldview, I think the video can be easily appreciated by anyone who is spiritual, artistic, or simply disillusioned with current societal trends and demoralizing cultural attitudes and longs for richer expressions of the soul among the arts. I was profoundly moved by the sentiments communicated so eloquently by these artists, set to scenes of them painting from a lovely life model. I think many of my readers, regardless of orientation, will take away something of value from this video. Cultural renewal is possible. We can choose to reaffirm life’s glory, mend brokenness, and resurrect positive ideals. Hope you enjoy

Routines, Old and New

You wake up in the morning, have a good stretch, make a pot of coffee and sit down to read about what’s going on in the world – on the Internet, in the newspaper, or wherever. And the more you read the bigger and darker becomes the cloud. You know the cloud I’m talking about. The cloud of human misery and strife and conflict. For me, this has become a detrimental routine, one that often comes close to ruining my whole mood for the rest of the day, that is if I allow it. But resistance is difficult, as I am nowhere near desensitized enough to resist the negative impact of so much tragedy and chaos. Some people are desensitized enough. I am not one of them. So after an hour of reading about rape and child neglect and infanticide, terrorist attacks and chemical weapons and car bombs, animal abuse and sex trafficking and rioting anarchists, corrupt politicians and the various cruelties carried out by asshole teenagers, and the current, seemingly unstoppable, cultural trend toward moral degeneracy, I am emotionally and mentally drained by the time I close my laptop. As much as I believe in awareness and staying informed, these days I’m regretting the routine every time. It just makes me sick. Beam me up Scotty, I’ve had enough.

Daily routines are not inherently harmful of course. On the contrary, routines can impart feelings of consistency, stability, and clearheadedness. For some people it’s a morning jog before work, for others a workout at the gym after work. For others still it’s painting or writing at the crack of dawn, or walking the dog, or even 20 minutes in the garden just picking a few weeds. A routine can also be something as simple as a morning phone call to check in on a parent or elderly loved one. Before my grandmother passed away, my Mom used to call her every single morning, a routine on my mother’s part that meant the world to grandma.

I’ve noticed that on the days when do I deviate from the first-thing-in-the-morning newsreading routine and replace it with something else – running, yoga, writing emails, making a fruit salad, tinkering around the house etc – I really do feel better, like I haven’t yet been “contaminated” by the evils and wretchedness of the world. My outlook and disposition remains truer to the person I am, who is loving and hopeful. I don’t want to bury my head in the sand, but I don’t want to defile my soul either. Well at least not first thing in the morning!

Routines, like habits, are hard to break. So while I can’t shut myself out from the news completely, I might consider moving the routine from the beginning of the day to the end of the day, when it can’t pollute my thoughts, hamper my productivity, distract me, or dampen the joy that my spirit intrinsically holds. I’m a pretty happy person generally. But the news headlines seem determined to convert us all into cynical, embittered nihilists. And that is very sad indeed.

Craig and I were discussing classical music the other night. I mentioned that one of the most uplifting pieces of music ever written, in my opinion, is the overture to Mozart’s comic opera The Marriage of Figaro. Jubilant, bubbly, and brisk, the overture sets a splendid, optimistic tone for the start of a day. Play pretend conductor and it’s even more fun! My new routine maybe? A million times better than the dreadful Huffington Post, that’s for sure.

Morning Light, by Childe Hassam:

Stravinsky and Sibelius

It’s coming up on 11:00 PM and I’m suffering from a bit of eye strain, but it’s still not too late for a Music Monday. So I’m going to hand it over to two great composers doing some trash-talking about music critics.

Robert Craft: What do you mean when you say that critics are incompetent?

Igor Stravinsky: I mean that they are not even equipped to judge one’s grammar. They do not see how a musical phrase is constructed, do not know how music is written; they are incompetent in the technique of the contemporary musical language. Critics misinform the public and delay comprehension. Because of critics many valuable things come too late.

— Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, Conversations with Igor Stravinsky (London: Faber and Faber, 1959), 107.

And more succinctly:

Pay no attention to what the critics say. A statue has never been erected in honor of a critic.

- Jean Sibelius

Any questions?

Stravinsky placing flowers at Sibelius’ grave in Finland, 1961:

Ladies at Auction

Warhol, Picasso, Van Gogh, Freud. It’s usually the same names shuffled around in rank each year, give or take a few tens of millions of dollars. They are traditionally the most in-demand powerhouses at art auctions, drawing the big bucks from collectors around the world. The artists are all great to be sure. They’re also all men. But the times may be a’changin’. An art market surge of women artists might be upon us prompted by, of all people, Berthe Morisot, an artist whose works can be described as unequivocally “feminine”. Centered on subjects of bourgeois ladies, domestic life, and Impressionistic outdoor scenes, Morisot’s paintings are visually pleasing, benign, almost soothing. In contrast to the candid realism of Lucien Freud, the macho prowess of Picasso, the slick commercialism of Warhol, or the intense, vivid palette of Van Gogh, Morisot was a genteel, civilized lady who sought neither to shock nor scream. And there’s nothing wrong with that.

In February, Berthe Morisot’s 1881 painting After Luncheon was purchased for $10.9 million at auction, setting a record for most expensive work sold by a female artist. A recent article in the Wall Street Journal, “Women on the Verge”, goes into some detail about the role of women artists in the auction scene and discusses the disparities that exist between women and their male counterparts in terms of sales. To her credit, Madonna has been collecting Tamara de Lempicka for many years, as has Barbra Streisand. According to the WSJ article, Helen Frankenthaler is starting to make a strong showing. And in the artistic photography niche Cindy Sherman does extremely well.

I am certainly no expert on the inner workings of the art market world, although I do take an interest in the articles about auction sales that pop up from time to time. Curiosity I guess. Also fascinating to learn how much a collector paid for a particular work and speculate as to why. Was it driven by pure admiration? Or shrewd investment? Maybe a bit of both. As far as the gender disparity goes, as a woman who avoids blaming sexism for everything (I don’t deny it exists of course) I confess that I’ve often wondered why you rarely see the names Frida Kahlo, Georgia O’Keefe, or even Alice Neel, appear in these big art sales stories. Hmm.

But here’s to Berthe Morisot, sending a feminine jolt into the stodgy, predictable art auction scene. Rock it, Ms. Morisot! You are a lady through and through

Here is a Morisot painting I happen to like very much. Young Woman Picking Oranges, 1889:

Landfill Harmonic

It’s very fitting that today’s Music Monday comes to us from my friend Karla who lives in Boston and survived last week’s tense turmoil in characteristic tough-as-nails Bostonian fashion. It’s also fitting that this inspiring video is about defying adversity, in this case through resourcefulness, creativity, and the musical dreams of impoverished children who live in a Paraguayan slum. That slum, Cateura, sits atop a landfill. Thanks to the enterprising efforts of one musician and one trash collector, “The Recycled Orchestra” was born. Its members consist of the beautiful, extraordinary children of the village playing instruments made entirely of recycled garbage from the landfill: “ violins and cellos from oil drums, flutes from water pipes and spoons, guitars from packing crates.”.

The Landfill Harmonic is an ambitious project that will involve a film documentary, concert tour, and instrument drive among other things. To read more about this marvelous endeavor please visit the Landfill Harmonic Movie website. Great stuff there about the people involved and their biographies, photos of the instruments, fundraising goals, and updates. Landfill Harmonic can also be found on Facebook and Twitter. And thank you Karla!

People I Know

After 33 years working at the National Academy in charge of building maintenance and janitorial staff, he has undoubtedly earned his retirement. We all bid a fond farewell to William the other night with a lovely reception in the school gallery where hugs, kisses, and well-wishes overflowed. Back in 2005, when I showed up for my very first modeling job at the Academy, it was William who directed me to the basement-banished Studio 5. “First day?” he asked. “Yes!!” I answered with the gung-ho enthusiasm of a  new, wet behind the ears artist’s model. “Good luck darlin’!”, William said. And I smiled. Over the next eight years William often witnessed me dashing through the hallways for quick bathroom breaks between poses, spilling coffee, asking for Band-Aids, looking for lost jewelry, and noisily pushing heavy armchairs around to set up long sitting poses. Always on hand to meet the requests of instructors, teachers, and models, William was our trusted friend. I wish him all the very best in his post-Academy life. A blown kiss for Willie to augment the kiss I already gave him on the cheek.

Still reeling from the harrowing loss of his son Ronan just one month before his third birthday, Rick Louis came here to New York City, his hometown, to visit family and friends. Rick and my brother Chris have been friends since childhood, and Rick has of course known me, Chris’s little sister, for just about the entirety of my life. All of us, along with our friend Greg, gathered for a reunion on the upper West Side where we enjoyed good food and great conversation. We were the Queens kids together again, reminiscing and sharing our favorite stories. While Rick is experiencing the unimaginable grief of a parent losing a child, he is seeking, and hopefully finding, solace in the bonds of those who love him and stand by him through his trials. Like me, Rick is a yoga enthusiast. For dear Rick, a spontaneous burst of upward-facing-dog on my kitchen floor. Namaste, friend.

Out of the blue, an email arrived with a subject memo that read “Blast From the Past”. Usually those words introduce something either very welcome or very unwelcome. In this instance it was, happily, very welcome. Again, an old friend, this time from high school. He searched for me on the Internet, which brought him where else but right here to Museworthy! Jimmy wrote the nicest note and thoughtfully attached some great old pictures of our gang. The faces of Stephanie, Heather, Leonard, Faby, and Jimmy are only partially obscured by my gigantic 80s hair! But gosh, we look so young. Ear-to-ear smiles. Exuberant. Energetic. The faces of carefree teenagers who have their whole lives ahead of them. Well, we’re all in our mid-forties now, but to assure Jimmy that we’re not old people just yet, a little fun in my living room chair showing that I can still kick up my heels like  the troublemaking high school junior I once was

All of the photos in this post were taken by the most important of the “people I know”, my boyfriend Craig. Thanks for the pics baby

Inamorato

“You know you’re in love when you can’t fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams.”

- Dr. Seuss

Lovers among Lilacs, Marc Chagall, 1930:

Rembrandt at the Mall

Hey gang! A few months ago we dove into the world of flash mobs and now we’re going to do it again. Some of you have seen this already I’m sure as it’s been around the Internet for several days. A flash mob infiltrated a shopping mall in Breda, the Netherlands, and enthralled passersby with a theatrical recreation of Rembrandt’s famous 1642 painting The Night Watch. The event was held to commemorate the return of the painting to the Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam’s world renowned art museum which has been undergoing renovations for ten years. The museum is back and the magnificent Night Watch is back with it. Actors in 17th century costume storm the mall by marching in on foot, on horseback, swinging on ropes, and conclude by posing in a perfect tableau of the painting’s scene replete with a giant frame. This is terrific rousing fun. I love these guys! Honestly, I think Rembrandt would love it too. And it’s glorious to see the Dutch celebrating with such pride and spirit one of their greatest native sons.

 

Rembrandt’s The Night Watch is noteworthy for its light and shadows, composition, and immense size (11 ft x 14 ft). Like many famous works of art, it has been subjected to acts of vandalism over the years; twice slashed with a knife, once sprayed with acid. The next time someone tries to harm the painting, I suspect the fabulous flash mob will storm in out of nowhere and deal with the bum.

Free As a Bird

I crack the windows in my house and the furnace fires up. I tighten my scarf because I feel a chill on my neck. Back in February those know-it-all groundhogs predicted an early spring this year and yet it’s April and we got nothin’! This unseasonably cool weather is delaying the coming of spring and I don’t like it at all. The nip in the air just won’t go away, and it’s inhibiting my mood and activities. I think this officially qualifies as an abnormal seasonal funk

If it weren’t for the birds perched in the trees, singing their mating calls, starting to build nests, and noshing at my backyard birdfeeder, we’d have virtually no signs of spring here in the NYC area. This is why birds are awesome. They don’t give a damn. They go about their business in spite of rain, wind,  cold, providing visual and audible signs of energetic life even when the ground remains hard and dry and tree branches are still without leaf buds. Regular Museworthy readers may have noticed that birds pop up often on this blog in one form or another. Artistically and spiritually, I find them agents of cheer, beauty, and optimism. Right now as I write this post, I can see birds jauntily flitting through the trees outside my window and two plump robins digging for worms on my neighbor’s front lawn. Rock on my little feathered friends

So to honor of the only creatures willing to carry on with springtime ebullience, here are a few birds of art created by some great masters.

Two Studies of a Bird of Paradise, by Rembrandt. Beautiful in pen and ink:

The Kingfisher by Vincent van Gogh:

Bird Returning to it’s Nest by Georges Braque:

The cutest owl drawing I’ve ever seen, this is Albrecht Durer’s The Little Owl:

The Promise, by one of my favorite surrealists Rene Magritte:

And last but certainly not least, a bird by Picasso, work “Untitled”:

The Phenomenal Phil Ramone

I can’t allow a Music Monday to pass without honoring the legendary music producer Phil Ramone, who died Saturday at New York Presbyterian Hospital after suffering an aortic aneurysm. He was 79 years old. As anyone in the industry will tell you, Phil Ramone left a tremendous legacy in pop music recordings. A prolific visionary, Ramone went from child prodigy to Julliard student to Brill Building songwriter to groundbreaking producer. He had a monumental music career in every way, and his list of credits and accomplishments is simply astonishing.

Phil Ramone’s philosophy about music producing was to allow the artist’s voice/sound to always remain the primary focus. He felt that the producer’s role was to draw out and capture the authentic artist while keeping intrusions to a minimum. Ramone’s approach was in stark contrast to, say, the Phil Spector style in which the producer’s imprint is prominent throughout the record. Phil Ramone’s musical instincts were impeccable. His belief in pure, unadulterated sound, freshness, and artistic integrity were admirable. And the trust and respect with which he treated musicians made him a beloved figure in the industry, both personally and professionally. My sister-in-law Gayle was a close acquaintance of Phil Ramone. At our family Easter dinner she attested, like everyone who knew him, that Phil Ramone was indeed a very warm, kind, self-effacing gentleman.

One of the finest examples of Phil Ramone’s genius can be heard in this track. The song is Billy Joel’s “Just the Way You Are”  for which Phil Ramone earned one of his many Grammy Awards as a producer. This was the well-deserved Record of the Year in 1979. Phil Ramone, RIP. You will be sorely missed. Thanks for the music.

 

“There aren’t enough words to express how heavy my heart is with the news of the passing of my dear friend and brother Phil Ramone. Phil was a collaborator in the studio and a friend in life for more than 50 years. Today we lost one of the true musicians, innovators and geniuses of the record industry, His immense talents were only surpassed by the gigantic size of his heart.”  — Quincy Jones

Heaven and Earth

Easter Week – Charles Kingsley

See the land, her Easter keeping,
Rises as her Maker rose.
Seeds, so long in darkness sleeping,
Burst at last from winter snows.
Earth with heaven above rejoices;
Fields and gardens hail the spring;
Shaughs and woodlands ring with voices,
While the wild birds build and sing.

You, to whom your Maker granted
Powers to those sweet birds unknown,
Use the craft by God implanted;
Use the reason not your own.
Here, while heaven and earth rejoices,
Each his Easter tribute bring-
Work of fingers, chant of voices,
Like the birds who build and sing.

Krishna (Spring in Kulu), by Nicholas Roerich:

At this glorious time of year, I hope all my readers have a very blessed holiday. I offer my warmest, sincerest wishes for peace, fellowship, strong spirits and joyous hearts, and respect for sacred earth.

See you soon

Claudia

Navel-gazing

For the past couple of days I’ve resisted writing a blog post about the latest stunt at the Museum of Modern Art. The “performance piece” can be summed up thusly; Tilda Swinton sleeping in a box. You all know the actress Tilda Swinton? Well it’s her. Clothed. Sleeping in a box. At this point I should mention that the admission fee for MoMA is $25. The title of this piece is “The Maybe”, as in “maybe I can find something better to do with my time and money”.

If you’re curious to see images of Tilda sleeping in the box please click on the above link, or check out the ample coverage of this “event” in a Google News search, because I really don’t want to post them here on sweet old Museworthy. After all, this is an ART blog. <— burn!

So without embarking on a rant-like objection to this kind of gimmickry into which the contemporary art scene has sunk, or going into a lengthy jeremiad about the cynicism and soullessness that has crept into the art world in general, I’ll just say that Tilda’s shtick bothers people if only because it embodies the worst kind of navel-gazing. Since it’s Tilda’s piece, she could have hired a model or any other interesting individual to take a nap in a box. But she decided to do it herself, which makes it very difficult to dispute the sheer self-regard that seems to lie at the root of this piece. And extreme self-regard, to me, is just an inherently boring and off-putting quality. That’s all I’m saying. Tilda can certainly do whatever she wants, and no one is being forced to attend her “performance”.

I may be a professional artist’s model but it’s doubtful anyone would pay to see me sleep in a box, although they have seen me sleep on the modeling platform at Spring Studio. Just a couple of times And I too engage in a lot of navel-gazing in my work, but in the literal sense. So allow me to share the art model’s version of navel-gazing, brought to us by two of my favorite artists who also happen to be very dear friends.

My torso by Daniel Maidman:

Me reclining, by Fred Hatt:

Drive me Crazy

Has anyone ever claimed that car shopping is supposed to be fun? If so then I’d like to meet that person and punch them in the nose, because it’s not! Wait, let me amend my assertion. I would imagine that buying a car is really fun when money is no object. Walk into a dealership, drive out with a Mercedes S -Class. But for the rest of us, buying a car means mulling over options and working within financial limitations: lease or finance, new or pre-owned or “certified” pre-owned, dealer or private sale, credit scores and APRs. Not exactly my idea of a good time. Alas, if only my beloved, dinged up 18 year-old Honda Civic hadn’t started billowing grey smoke out of the exhaust a few weeks ago. Part of me actually considered spending the money to rebuild the engine and hold on to the little guy, but the two very smart men in my life, my boyfriend and my brother, disabused me of that idea pronto.

In all my recent perusings of the Kelley Blue Book it never occurred to me to check out a Bugatti. The Art Deco-era painter Tamara de Lempicka surely did. I wonder if I can find one of these things pre-owned at a reasonable price! Haha, doubtful. I have a much better chance of finding those glamorous gold gloves

Self-Portrait in the Green Bugatti, 1925, by Tamara de Lempicka: