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:

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:

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”:

Hope is . . .

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

— Emily Dickinson

Giotto’s St. Francis Preaching to the Birds, 1299

Glory to the Figure

In case I wasn’t clear enough in my previous post about preferring figure modeling to portrait modeling, I have some images that might express it more effectively than any words. I had written about the frustration I sometimes feel when I’m confined to sitting in a chair, clothed, when my natural impulse is to pose with my entire body and demonstrate a wider range of movement. From shoulders to hips, from head to feet, from arms to legs, the human figure is ready, willing, and able to show off its “intelligent design”. We can twist and turn, rotate and swivel, extend and contract, balance and shift our weight around, and put on a glorious show that merges both our physicality and our humanity. Muscles allow us to move, bones hold us together, and the whole sublime package provides a timeless source of inspiration to artists throughout history.

Mark Tennant is one of those artists. Recently, I had the great pleasure of posing for him privately. Mark has drawn me many times at Spring Studio, and I have modeled for his class at the New York Academy of Art. Our private collaboration was a marvelous extension of our professional relationship. Mark was kind enough to send along these images of our session together. You can follow Mark’s progress on these and his other works on his Facebook page. Long live the figure!

 

About Face

Due to happenstance, I am currently posing for four ongoing portrait classes; three painting and one sculpture. That contemporaneous amount is unusual in a model’s schedule. I can’t speak for other models, but I’ve always found that portrait work differs from figure work in some fairly significant ways. Before I elaborate, I should confess that portrait sitting is my least favorite type of modeling assignment. Why? A few reasons, some petty, some less so. It bothers me somewhat that portrait sitting can be done by pretty much anyone who can sit reasonably still for a couple of hours, therefore the services of a professional artist’s model is not required. So I suppose I harbor a touch of snobbery in that respect. I know what I’m capable of with my body in terms of movement, posing, and gesture, so why am I just sitting in a chair with my clothes on staring into space? Also, portrait work often demands that the same garment, accessories, hair clip, necklace, etc. be worn for each session. This is a minor nuisance to me, having to manage tops and scarves and remember to have them washed and ready to wear the day of the class. What a huge pain in the ass!! <– just kidding

From a more serious perspective, portrait sitting produces a distinct relational energy between the model and the artists. Now this may sound strange, but I actually feel less connected to the artists when I pose for portraits than when I pose for figure. In fact, I feel more objectified. It’s bizarre. Portrait artists are observing the face primarily, and this leads to open examination that scrutinzes my eye sockets and eyebrows, upper lips and earlobes. Sure, part of me is interested and amused by such talk, but it is a tad unnerving. Conversely, class study of my nude body doesn’t bother me in the slightest. For some reason I’m much more at ease and in my comfort zone having my rib cage and pelvis discussed in an open forum than, say, my nostrils. Ah, maybe I’m just a freak.

One could argue that the face is the truest, most honest and unvarnished broadcaster of a person’s character, preserving the badges and imprints of one’s life journey, the visual seat of our fluctuating moods, temporary irritations and worries. Facial expressions vary from day to day, even from hour to hour. We look different on stressful days than we do on carefree ones. When we’re lacking sleep or experiencing anxiety, our faces tell the story whereas our bodies do not, or at least not as overtly. When I am having a bad day emotionally, I much prefer to do figure modeling than portrait sitting. As models we can “fake it” with our bodies if need be. You’d be surprised how unsettling it can be to maintain a portrait face when your mind is racing with troubles and everyone is staring at you. Eyes dart, hands and feet fidget, brows furrow. It’s a mess. And then you hear the instructor, as he assists a student in creating a likeness, utter the phrase “laugh lines” and your whole day is ruined! As a professional artist’s model, I’m used to being stared at. That’s a huge understatement. But the few times in my career in which I’ve heard the silent scream in my head of “What are you looking at??!!” have occurred during portrait sitting.

I think I’ve babbled enough. Let’s conclude with two expressive examples of portraiture, an art genre that I sincerely admire. I have nothing but respect for the creators and the sitters. That’s the truth. Heck, the most famous artwork in the world is a portrait. And effective portrait painting is a rare specialty that demands tremendous skill on the part of the artist. In other words, pay no attention to the trivial gripes of a jaded artist’s model. We just like to bitch once in a while

Young Woman with Lowered Eyes, 1869, by Frédéric Bazille:

Portrait of William H. MacDowell, 1891, by Thomas Eakins:

An Armenian in Chicago

Thoughtful, wonderful friends are a blessing. And I am very blessed in this regard. After a bustling week of modeling, running around – and exhaustion! – it’s a treat to open an email from a friend with an attachment to share. My good pal Daniel Maidman is currently in Chicago and during a visit to the Art Institute he saw this 1912 painting by Ralph Elmer Clarkson titled Nouvart Dzeron, A Daughter of Armenia. Daniel was kind enough to take a picture of it and send it my way. Now I may be a daughter of New York City, but I’m still an Armenian girl

An elegant work and a charismatic model. According to the Art Institute of Chicago’s artwork page for this piece, Nouvart was one of Clarkson’s students. Three years after this painting was created, the Ottoman Turks began their genocide against the Armenian people. I had never seen this painting until Daniel sent it. So huge thanks D!

My busy modeling phase continues tomorrow morning with a terrific new gig; posing for the Saturday workshop taught by the marvelous Peter Cox. And I’m extra excited because my other good friend, Janet Cook, will be in the class. Looking forward to seeing her. Friends and art and modeling – I have no complaints

Winter Hideaway

Hey gang! The big storm is coming and I am super prepared for a wintry 48 hours of snowed-in warmth and retreat. I have no work until Monday, so until then I am stocked up with food, wine, tea, candles, and firewood. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, those of us born under the astrological sign of Cancer are pros at this sort of thing – staying home and creating a comfortable, secure, cozy environment. So I say to storm Nemo, bring it baby! We’re ready for you in Queens, NY.

Be safe everyone. Have fun, throw another log on the fire, make hot chocolate, take photos of snowy landscapes, create art, read books, listen to Beethoven, play with the pets, curl up in a blankie, watch an old movie, snuggle with someone you love . . . . and dream about spring  I’ll see you all very soon.

Lady by the Fireplace by Gustav Klimt:

Weekend Blah

You know you’re officially old when you’re falling asleep at 9:30 on a Saturday night. Too tired to go out, too tired to socialize, even too tired to read. I remember when I had unquenchable energy, mental clarity, and often went dancing. Dancing? Do people go dancing anymore? Eh whatever. I’m really out of it and just wanted to say hi. Man, is this the lamest Museworthy post ever? I think so. Why am I even writing this? I’m barely lucid and my chances of offering anything of interest is exactly zero. Sorry guys.

Maybe I can jazz things up a bit with some art. It’s my only hope to salvage this pointless post. This is Sleeping Nude with a Red Shawl, by Zinaida Serebriakova:

Huddled Masses

My apologies to Emma Lazarus for swiping a phrase from her famous poem “The New Colossus” as the title for this blog post. Inscribed on the pedestal of the Statue of Liberty, the “huddled masses” to which Lazarus is referring are emigrants “yearning to breathe free”, coming to America in search of a better life. I have co-opted the phrase to describe a particular aspect of the freezing cold winter weather that has descended upon much of the country. 16 degrees in NYC today. It’s cold, man. It’s freaking cold!

A great deal of winter themed paintings depict the stark, elegant beauty of the season. Sometimes desolate and bleak, other times graceful and serene, winter conditions really do provide a diversity of moods and images for the artist. The most popular ones are usually snow-covered landscapes, mountain villages, frozen lakes, alpine passes, and leafless trees standing bare against grim grey skies. Winter in the context of nature is extraordinarily beautiful, and even an avowed summer person like myself can admit to it. If you’ve ever trekked through the woods on a winter day you’ve surely been entranced by the quiet, spiritual, almost mystical energy it holds – animal tracks in the snow, an icy stream, a little forest creature scurrying into a hidden hole for shelter.

Winter in the context of cities, or any setting in which everyday people are depicted, introduces a different element of the cold weather existence: less of the spiritual natural beauty thing, more of the hardships and discomforts that the cold weather inflicts. Freezing temperatures or not, people still have things to do and places to go. Life goes on, in spite of ice-covered railroad tracks, water main breaks, layers of sweaters, and high heating bills. Heck, mankind has been coping with the cold since the beginning of time. Though much has changed in terms of our conveniences, our human instincts to survive, seek warmth, and press on with our lives remains the same. Here are a few works that help to illustrate my version of the “huddled masses”.

John Sloan’s Six O’Clock, Winter is a striking example of New York City and its commuting hoards, crowded beneath the Third Avenue el, an intense winter sky overhead:

Good old New York City again, this time by Childe Hassam. From 1919,  Fifth Avenue in Winter:

One more from Hassam, a wonderful scene and composition done very effectively, Cab Stand at Night, Madison Square, New York, 1891:

In this work, Carl Larsson shows us that a winter-themed scene can also be an interior. You get the feeling that these folks are relieved, temporarily, to be indoors in the warmth. Does anyone else find that their eye goes to the kid in the lower right with black fur hat? Peasant Interior in Winter, 1890:

To many of us, winter’s cold is a reminder to consider those less fortunate. Soup kitchens, food pantries and the like ask for more donations during the winter months to provide basic needs for the poor or homeless. Every year I give a coat to the New York Cares Coat Drive. By Ferdinand Georg Waldmuller, this is Children of poor parents get winter clothes from the community on Spittelberg on Saint Michael Day, 1857:

Jose Clemente Orozco was a Mexican social realist painter. All he needed to do here was exaggerate the bulky thickness of the mens’ coats and suggest rigid shoulders to communicate a cold winter day. This is Winter from 1932:

In The Snowstorm, the great Goya depicts a wandering group braving a bitter snowstorm. You can feel the windchill in the gestures of the figures and the heads turned down. Because of Goya’s brilliance and sensitivity, the travelers are given an air of heroism as they tread along determinedly in the face of brutal cold.

We conclude with Edvard Munch’s Workers in the Snow. Our New York forecast has snow for later today. If it comes I may hire these guys to shovel my driveway