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Before there were digital cameras, if an artist wanted a certain scene with no branches obscuring the mountains, no problem - just paint a picture and leave out those branches. The photographer had no such easy way out. I could not get a good shot of Marcy from this spot - so I had to do a pastel painting [based on a poor photo].
Then came digital cameras! And photo editing programs! So I took the poor photo and digitally removed the offending branches [see previous picture].
But I still had the pastel painting - and here, I have painted it digitally with a watercolor effect. Morph, morph, morph!
So I had some spare time and wanted to try and do a morph!. I decided to do one of Wolv considering he is yummy. :P. Anyway, I think it worked out well :D.
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Original Picture:
Lewis attended a Halloween party at school today!! His mum brought him to our home to show him off or maybe just to frighten us!!
Thanks to everyone who views this photo, adds a note, leaves a comment and of course BIG thanks to anyone who chooses to favourite my photo .... Thanks to you all.
They called for 3 inches of snow, which morphed into almost a foot (so far). It was the really heavy, heart-attack inducing crap from heaven. The snow blower was able to sort of move it out of the way, until the drive cable snapped.
Basically, very sucky weather. Just God's way of keeping the people that went to the Superbowl in New Jersey for one more day. . .
© Steve Byland 2014 all rights reserved
Heavy afternoon traffic in Tehran Resalat highway over Seyyed Khandan bridge, Milad tower at the background.
This was taken right at the beginning of a life-changing journey. I was waiting for a taxi to take me to Qom from the midst of these busy Tehran urban highways at rush hour. A young Iranian student I met in the taxi talked to me about the Agricultural Jihad volunteering works that thousands of university students like himself engaged in every summer in rural areas of the country to help with poverty alleviation and improvements of rural infrastructure. I badly wished I too could participate: I was tired of trying to compensate against the overwhelmingly negative propaganda that Iran gets by just talking to people outside of Iran. I felt I needed to actually do something for the people inside of Iran as a gesture to compensate for decades of global collective punishment and crimes against them. Unfortunately, the summer had already passed, but it wouldn't be too long until the next opportunity showed up along with a greater motivation: the most criminal and indiscriminate sanctions ever against Iran, a new crime against humanity authored by the Obama administration, were starting to kick in hurting - as usual - the civilian population. And so these ascending urban highways heading to the new Milad tower before my trip to Qom somehow morphed into a symbol of a journey into better understanding Iran, a path which would bring me oceans of valuable and enriching life experiences.
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This started as a work outfit but kinda morphed in 1950s style leather skirt outfit. Well I think so .....
a dull morning morphed into this amazing afternoon... a quick dip in the crystal clear water, feeling incredibly grateful.
52 weeks of 2021
Week #16 ~ Panorama
18 vertical shots, blended in Photoshop
How to Tour Penkill Castle in No Easy Steps, Part 2
(See previous image for Part 1)
In the last exciting episode of How to Tour Penkill Castle in No Easy Steps, I had just completed what few photographic compositions from up the lane that Penkill Castle would avail. Walking back in total revery of the liquid sunshine of Ayrshire that imbued me, the first thing I noticed was that my bride was missing! See what I did there? The joy of revery receding to panic in the span of one sentence… except there was neither “revery” nor “panic” in that moment. I was drenched to my drawers and Joyce has a way of turning up missing a lot. Walking together once at a nearby Tanger Outlet Mall, deep in conversation, she did not respond to a query. I turned to her and repeated the question… but it wasn’t her. Another woman looked at me with the aforementioned panic. I apparently gave an expression of wonder about how my wife morphed suddenly into altogether different human being. Something in the window two stores back had caught her eye, and she stopped there without uttering a word. I’ve learned to keep a closer eye on her these days or hold hands. She still breaks loose occasionally like Mustang Sally, though when I do lose her now, I text her, “Where am I?” It’s our longest running joke.
Looking around, I wondered that very thing there at Penkill. Having no signal, texting was out of the question. Was she swallowed up by the Scottish wilderness, or – “Hey! Come in out of the rain!” – perhaps the castle? I’m going with castle. Joyce was waiting just inside the formidable wooden door with a nice fluffy towel. “Bless you!” From there, she led me to the upper room of the turret, where hot tea and biscuits (aka cookies) awaited us.
That was likely the best cup of tea I’ve ever had. Between that and that cozy den, my chill was knocked out in a hurry. Sitting in an overstuffed couch next to Joyce, she told me that the housekeeper insisted that she come in from the rain. That dousing, and a similar incident the next day in Northern Ireland, taught me a lesson for subsequent trips to the U.K. I got us each a phenomenal compact travel umbrella by Repel (yes, Amazon has it) that goes with us everywhere… ever the boy scout, and it paid off. Keep it in mind if you’re headed that way anytime soon and leave a little something in the tip jar.
I wondered a bit about our host as I finished my tea. Joyce and I both had top of the line Galaxy S5 smartphones then but getting 4G information in Scotland using American related tech at the time was frustrating at best. I have since learned that Patrick Dromgoole could best be understood somewhat as Wales’s answer to Ted Turner. He was chairman of HTV Wales, a maverick bucking the BBC hold on communications in the U.K., with much of the programming presented in Welsh (I doubt Wheel of Fortune was among the programs there… you have no idea how hilarious “Can I buy a vowel?” would be concerning the Welsh language). He was also an executive producer, producer, and director of movies and television programming. All I knew as he entered the room was that he had been involved in the entertainment industry, often behind the camera. It also occurred to me that merely the cost for keeping such a structure as Penkill as comfortable as it was required a standard of life a bit higher than I am used to. Robin Leech came to mind in that moment, hobnobbing with the rich and famous. Yet, something about his gracious hospitality to a couple of foreign strangers who just suddenly came a-knockin’ perhaps told me more about him… he’s an artist, always looking for what life has to offer his imagination. I can relate to that. I have met famous people before, but I am never starstruck, as I’ve never met stranger. I tend to go with my strengths… makes me think I should have been a salesman. “Buy this or I’ll kick your dog and pull up your shrubbery!” Well, maybe not. He took note of how wet I was as he came into the room. I told him that I fell in the moat. His laughter set the tone for our time there.
Introductions all around, then Joyce quickly laid out her connection to the Boyd family, and her interest in its history and ancestry. Patrick took an immediate interest, asking Joyce what she knew of the castle. Patrick had purchased Penkill Castle in 1993 for the sum of £650,000. His interest in it was not that of Boyd ancestry, but rather the Pre-Raphaelite artwork associated with it. Of course, to understand that required knowledge of the castle’s overall history. I instantly discerned that he was not simply owner/resident here; he had been a consummate student of the past. ‘If these walls could speak!’ Penkill’s did… he listened.
In writing this, I had to test the rationality of what Patrick stated, if only to make sense to my American mind, though rationality and the World Wide Web are often anything but synonymous… I have hens’ teeth now for show-and-tell, however! Penkill had passed from Boyd Laird to Boyd Laird, all relatives of the Earls of Kilmarnock, from Adam Boyd, the 1st Laird, to Evelyn May Courtney-Boyd, the 16th and final Laird, as she would pass it to private ownership. Some of those Lairds were builders with vision; others were anything but, handled resources poorly and some let things go to ruin. All of that is true, though gleaning much truth beyond that over the internet is seemingly little more than an exercise in futility. Regardless such futility, it does point out a couple more certainties: even (or should I say especially?) aristocrats are given to the human condition, as is the internet. I’ve read historical accounts of Penkill that are contradictory, hearsay, or just downright false. As is always the case, some well-intentioned online know-it-alls are more interested in reducing the world to a reflection of their opinions without once considering those opinions may be mistaken at best. A particular site wrongly attributes Alice Boyd as the 15th Laird of Penkill. The same site also attributes her as the 14th Laird, a glaring contradiction. Who knows what else the author got wrong? From there, it’s evident authors of other sites took liberties with the same false claim, which amounted to poor research. I would have to pour through actual documents to determine such historical aspects conclusively… but my intent here is not to unfold a grand historical account of the castle (allegedly, an unpublished history by a relative of Laird Alice Boyd depicting that period at Penkill is held by Princeton University if anyone is so inclined). It is merely my observation of things heard and seen from one who knew this place intimately, as so few are.
Patrick was as charming as he was gracious. He genuinely seemed to appreciate our company… we were a willing audience and Joyce had questions. At age 83 at the time, his movement was slowed, yet his mind was quick to offer a lifetime of accumulated knowledge with both wit and certainty. In mere moments from his appearance, I found his sense of humor to be quite like mine. Joyce had told him that we were on our honeymoon. He took note that we were nearer the ‘sell by’ date than a typical bride and groom. I told him about Joyce showing her ring at work where she had been a nurse for 25 plus years… the first question from coworkers was “Where are you registered?” We were still sorting that out at the time because, being older, she had stuff, I had stuff, all God’s children had stuff, and we truly didn’t need more. Somewhat flustered, Joyce recounted that at dinner that night with friends. I didn’t miss a beat: “Next time, just tell them that at our age, we’re registered with CVS Pharmacy.” Patrick roared, and we seemed to bond in that moment. At his age, he well understood the progression. In answer to your question, yes, we settled to register with both Samaritan’s Purse and Wounded Warrior Project… with CVS as an alternate. Ha!
Patrick regaled us with a concise understanding of the region and its people. Something in that stood out to me. A few days before, Joyce and I attended the 700th Celebration of the Battle of Bannockburn. Mind you, that’s not so much a celebration of war, but rather Scotland’s stand against England. Think about that… 700 years. Joyce had tickets to a special presentation of how the battle ensued. Walking among the displays, it occurred to me that Scots hold a grudge for a very long time. That is a funny generalization, but it’s close to the truth. The oppressed commoners of Ayrshire were no great respecters of either aristocracy, or of the imposing edifices they lived in. Patrick had to bring in skilled workers out of London for upgrades and repairs to the castle. The locals wanted no part of that, some feeling that it should be left to decay.
Patrick’s interest there started with Alice Boyd, the 14th Laird of Penkill. Her father and her brother, both named Spenser, died rather young. Before her brother, the 13th Laird, died, they both had formed a lasting alliance with the British Pre-Raphaelite movement while the castle was under construction. Allow a bit of supposition here on my part, as I’m unable to find exactness here apart from Patrick’s thoughts: the root of that alliance likely came as they, too, had to turn to the place of the best available craftsmen on the British Isles at the time, London. At her brother’s death, Alice assumed lairdship, as Spenser was childless. Under her direction, construction continued, yet more as a transformation influenced by the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. Penkill would become a center to the movement, with many of the brotherhood finding their way through its doors.
Alice would become not just a fine painter herself, but she would find herself accepted into the brotherhood. One of the finest artists of that movement, William Bell Scott, formed an enduring relationship with her and trained her in his style of painting… she began as his student and became his muse. Though she never married, her connection with Scott would become quite the soap opera tryst… he was married, though unhappily, and his muse would become a sought-after prize. I have a working title for the dramatic interpretation of that…Penkill Abbey. Has a ring to it.
In March of 2021, a painting, The Thames from Cheyne Walk, probably a view from Belle Vue House sold at Bonhams, unframed, for £ 237,750 (US$ 322,811). Belle Vue (meaning beautiful view) House in London was occupied by Scott at the time. Alice created that painting while wintering there. Now, art can be defined in a myriad of ways. However, art cannot be defined in every way. Truth can be found in art, ‘truth’ being defined as that which conforms to reality… in this instance, we see evidence of both the existence and depth of their relationship. There is yet another truth about that painting… there is significant worth in Pre-Raphaelite art. After Scott’s wife died, he moved into Penkill Castle. Included in Alice’s additions to the castle was an art studio, where they both set to work converting the castle into an imaginative gallery.
Scott adorned the castle tower staircase with murals based on The Kingis Quair (yes, that’s spelled correctly, meaning The King’s Book), a semi-autobiographical poem written by James I of Scotland, describing the King's capture by the English in 1406 while on his way to France and his subsequent imprisonment by Henry IV. Members of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood modeled as characters in that undertaking. Meanwhile, Alice concentrated on the turret room and the Laird’s bedroom. Other works were done, though we were privileged to see only the staircase, the turret room, and a grand dining hall. From descriptions of Alice’s work on the bedroom, I suspect she was the one who decorated the surround in my image A View from the Turret. Another member of the brotherhood, poet Cristina Rossetti, summed up her thoughts of Penkill in this way, ‘Even Naples in imagination cannot efface the quiet fertile comeliness of Penkill in reality.’ I will never know Naples of her day, yet there is a depth to that statement that Joyce and I could well appreciate.
Even such grandeur needs upkeep. 100 years later, the castle fell into disrepair yet again. Evelyn May Courtney-Boyd, the 16th and last Boyd Laird of Penkill was age 84 at the time she offered the castle for private ownership. Friends remembered her as generous to a fault, though with no head for finances… bills were going unpaid. That, and apparently, she was taken advantage of by many around her, essentially rifling through and absconding with treasured art of the castle. One of those people became quite legendary, though not in a way he would have preferred. Are there any stories about milkmen that end up as anything other than jokes about paternity issues? Patrick had one such story concerning the double portrait of the siblings Alice and Spencer Boyd, painted by William Bell Scott that hangs there in the turret room. That painting is supposedly cursed. Etched above it is a warning, “Move not this picture, let it be, for love of those in effigy.”
According to the tale, of which there appears to be some authenticity, Willie Hume was the milkman who delivered to Evelyn her dairy necessities. While doing so, he also took note of her loneliness. He, along with his wife, finagled their way not just into the Laird’s heart, but eventually into the castle as a resident. Soon thereafter, art from Penkill’s collections found their way to Scottish auction houses. Hmmm… seems like 5-fingered supplemental income transpired right under Evelyn’s nose to my untrained wits. Willie thought the cursed painting should be a prize for some hapless auctioneer, though many knew of its peculiar affliction and wanted nothing to do with it. Unfazed and without taking heed to the warning, Willie attempted to pry the cursed painting from its place… and immediately fell to the floor in bodily distress. Some accounts of this tale have Willie dying on the spot. Others state he died later that night of angina, though more likely of a heart attack, as angina is merely a condition causing chest pain. Of course, what matters here is not the exactness of how or when he died, but rather that the curse has teeth. The double portrait remains where it has been since the etching, and I have a picture to prove it. I’m not one for curses, but I made no effort to touch it or any of the pieces that Patrick allowed me to photograph… no sense tempting fate.
The key word there is “allowed.” Patrick asked that I limit my photography only to the pieces he would point out to me as safe to post. It became clear that his interest was not merely the art of the Pre-Raphaelite movement… I sensed his vision in our conversation to resurrect the castle much to the condition that Alice Boyd and William Bell Scott had left it. Take from that what you will, but he had both means and resources to secure that. Understand that “safe” items were a known quantity that even the auctioneers were aware of… and that assumes acquisitions that he would rather keep close to the vest to protect his assets. I think that’s marvelous. Let me explain why.
Several Scottish historical societies clamored for a shot at Penkill as soon as Laird Evelyn May Courtney-Boyd indicated she was letting it go. Their offerings, however, were a mere pittance of Penkill’s value, even considering its poor condition. Much to their horror (gasp!), she sold it to an American interloper, a lawyer, of all things! Most all that I could find out about him was lawyer, lawyer, lawyer. And he was… but there was something about him that stood out to me. As Paul Harvey was prone to say, there’s more to story. Elton ‘Al’ Eckstrand was indeed a lawyer for the Chrysler Corporation, which fed his habit as a National Hot Rod Association (NHRA) super stock drag racer known as ‘The Lawman’… and he truly was a legend, inducted into the Drag Racing Hall of Fame in 2000. That’s where he made his fortune. For those of you who believe straight-track racing is no big deal, super stock dragsters are grizzlies compared to your teddy bear everyday cars. For a super stock racer to make it to the end of that track intact requires precise timing and reflexes to make that work, and control of not just tremendous horsepower, but also the incredible torque that horsepower produces that will kill you anywhere along that track if you don’t keep it reigned in tight. Al, as he was known among pro circuits, held many records doing just that. Yeah, I knew who he was and had seen him race. I just didn’t know of his connection to Penkill until now.
Al died in 2008. It turns out that his obituary was a leading source to that connection: “During the 1980's, Mr. Eckstrand purchased the 15th Century Penkill Castle in Scotland, home to the Pre-Raphaelite artists and officially became the 18th Laird of Penkill. Mr. Eckstrand received numerous awards from the British Government for his efforts in the preservation of the castle and became famous as the American who saved Penkill Castle.” Yet again I’m met with truths and inconsistencies. Indeed, awards came to him from not just the NHRA. Long story short, through his efforts to restore the castle, he affected what the Scottish societies likely never could and saved the castle from ruin. There is one debatable issue here, though. He may have been made an honorary Laird for his efforts, but the 18th? The only way that happens is if the milkman was made the 17th Laird… he was no doubt a resident.
In 1992 Penkill was sold by Eckstrand to Scots-born Canadian businessman Don Brown. A year later, it passed into Patrick’s possession. With a year’s gap, Patrick continued along Al’s path to renovation, again much to the bewilderment of Scottish societies. Chilean-born to Irish parents, Patrick was considered an outsider as well. I took note of a spark to Patrick that I don’t believe any of the society could equal… detail. He was no stranger to a camera, though his experience was with cinematic cameras. As I set about the photography of the artwork, I used the tripod to straighten the perspective of each image. Patrick understood that, though he had no experience with a high-end digital camera. The painting of Spenser Boyd is a rather dark piece that is hung in a dark place where it has always been, the turret room. And it’s a small canvas, about 6 inches by 9 inches in my recollection. Yet, my camera was able to pull detail from the painting that Patrick was unaware of. He was fascinated. A magnifying glass would never show such detail. He got excited about the depth of complexity that he might use to further investigate his acquisitions better.
As an artist, I recognize the interests of the Scottish societies to preserve Penkill. I also know that they have somewhat limited resources. As a photographer, I’ve invested time, effort, money, a depth of knowledge, and passion into my craft. Yet, there have been many well-intentioned folks who hit me with, “Nice camera! I’ll bet it takes nice photos.” They don’t understand that my camera is nothing more than an expensive paperweight until I set it to do what I want it to. I’ve had societies, publications, and individuals approach me with the same expectations as the Scottish societies have to the owners of Penkill. They ‘love’ my work but would rather I give it to them than they invest in it. I’ve learned to say no. Patrick’s desire and aesthetic as a curator with a background in art to return Penkill to its rightful place as the center of the Pre-Raphael art movement should be taken by the societies as a gift. They need to see the value of it. They need to offer that value one day… I believe it will come back to them manyfold.
The last piece Patrick showed me was a bas relief of the Temptation, a depiction of Jesus’ encounter with Satan. It had been part of the turret room fireplace mantle that had rotted and had to be replaced. It was in such poor condition that the only way it could be saved was to have it framed as art in perpetuity… Patrick made certain that details were preserved. Concerning this piece, he told me that there was some confusion as to whether Satan was offering an apple (the round object in his hand) to Eve in this portrayal. I said, “If that’s Eve, women were a lot more rugged back in the day than we knew.” Patrick laughed. It’s Satan tempting Jesus, who created everything from nothing, to follow his command to turn a stone into bread. Artists must be content to create from what has already been created. Patrick was no painter, but with Penkill as his palette, he had created no less than a masterpiece.
With that, we had a plane to catch to continue our adventure in Northern Ireland and Patrick had a party to attend shortly. It was the 4th of July, and his neighbor, actor, television host Craig Ferguson, who was quite proud of his American citizenship (2008), was in high celebration spirits. He said that he would give Craig our regards. Nearly a week before, I watched brilliant light from the just risen sun move completely around the cabin of the A380 that we had just crossed the ‘pond’ in… we were moving into position for landing at Heathrow, London. I remember thinking that I was going to meet people that I had only known online. They were all folks that I had come to love and respect…yet this thought just chimed in: “What if they’re jerks?” That thought quickly evolved to “What if I’m a jerk?” My oldest Flickr friend would be picking us up at Heathrow to stay with him for a few days. A retired London surgeon, he would go on to show us his city from his perspective as a photographer. He also gave me good tips for driving in the UK… that’s how to truly immerse yourself in culture. I am so happy that the world is not quite like me… it makes life so much richer. Turns out they were all among the sweetest people I’ve met anywhere, including Patrick.
We lingered at the end of the driveway to sort out ‘British Chick’ (the Mercedes’ GPS) to put us back on the path to Glasgow Airport. “That word is disambiguous… just kidding! You will arrive in 118 miles.” Well, things were looking up! I would be leaving British Chick in Scotland. I wonder if she misses me.
Overnight drizzle in eastern Maryland that morphed into an early morning snowstorm led to perhaps the best snow flocking I can ever recall in any place I've called home. With the terrific background set, Train 89(11), the southbound Palmetto brings the snowy, blowy action at milepost 81, south of Gunpow Interlocking.
Our S&B Productions photo train morphed a couple of times during her trip from Duluth to Two Harbors and back. Initially, she hauled a freight train consist and the photographers rode in a couple of heavyweight passenger cars towed behind a pair of vintage diesels. Later in the day, the caboose was removed, and the passenger equipment added to the freight train, making a very nice, accurately-lettered mixed train.
Factory built 1907 by James Layrock Havill for Smart Bag Co. of Montreal, which morphed into Woods Manufacturing Co. Ltd by 1918
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torontoplaques.com/Pages/Woods_Manufacturing.html
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www.woods.ca/content/microsites/woods/en/woods-legacy.html
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www.snewsnet.com/news/rumors-of-woods-canada-demise-false
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Olympus M.Zuiko Digital 12-50mm 1:3.5-6.3 macro
PB241163 Anx2 Q90 1400h 0.5k-1.5k
The fear it creeps my bones
the watching child has seen it all
one decision morphed into an ugly lie
pretending we could grasp one another’s palms
weaving friendliness and boundaries into our eyes
is this of which you wanted?
or is this of which you feared?
because the follower sings good-bye as a chance
nonetheless it is only the leader who hearts the dance
the watching child knew all along
that our decision had changed the whisperer’s song
the regret…it creeps my heart
to recognize the cold as the beginning of alone
-by…well me ha
as of late ive been feeling uncomfortable in my own skin its weird. I do want to thank everyone for their kind words, whether it was to cheer me up or if it was simply just leaving a comment, it means a lot to me and I really appreciate every single one of you.
ps, first actual attempt at pshop. big fail yeah man but whatever, it does good for now at least
hhmmm, don’t you find it funny how easy it is to fall into old habits as soon as things get tough, this silly thing we call life ha
have a good weekend :)
OH and before i forget, the texture is from pareerica :)
By Victor Pross
“ART IS ABOUT DECONSTRUCTION!” Tammy cried out, bursting like a cork. “This is an art school, not a syndicated newspaper! This is not a work of art!” Tammy’s whole body was animated with anger.
The student’s turned, as if in reaction to gunfire and beheld a frizzled red head, her checks turning the color of her cherry mane. Her name was Tammy White, a first year art student. “Look at this,” she yelped, pointing to a stack of paintings and drawings of strangely morphed caricatures of celebrities and skewered social stereotypes that greatly exaggerated classes of people from all walks of life. She then spun around unleashing her anger onto a lone figure who stood at his easel in mid brush stroke, creating the wildly diverse caricatures.
“This is a serious art school and he is turning it to a second grade school!” Tammy sputtered to nobody in particular.
The lone figure was me.
I was secluded in a corner of the class room painting. My concentrated focus was momentarily distracted by the outburst. A little head head-turn, the rise of an eye-brow, and then a nod of indifferent acknowledgement was all I cared to offer. I returned to my painting as if nothing had happened.
Tammy’s appearance was as colourful as the paints she used: her hair was died, part red and green, her eye-shadow a gloss blue. Her eyes were made luminous by the dark purple eyeliner and her bone-white skin was stretched over her skeleton like shrink wrap. Her penchant for tie-die t-shirts and olive green army jackets pleaded for attention.
Tammy was not one to give up. “Look at that painting! What does he think he is doing?” I heard the first words of her rambling discourse but my mind dissolved into fog. By the time the diatribe ended, I addressed Tammy openly: “Anything you have to say to me doesn’t make the slightest bit of difference.” I said this without rancour. It was a statement of simple fact, spoken prosaically.
From day one, Tammy took an instant dislike to me, referring to me as “the hick.” In a school saturated with mass-marketed nonconformity, I stood out because it was impossible to classify me. My hair style was that of James Dean, complete with his soulful look, and I was given to wearing leather jackets reminiscent of Brando in “The Wild One”. I was dated, at least in appearance. Or perhaps I was completely from a different planet.
Tammy, too, stood out, but in an entirely different way than me. Her anger, her erratic behaviour raised a red flag in most people, even among those who were angry artist types. During her pubescent school years, Tammy White was trouble. At her high school proem, while other girls primed themselves before mirrors, Tammy sealed herself off in her room and listened to angst-ridden music indulging in self-mutilation. With a razor blade in hand she would carve parallel lines on her arms. A year later, she decided to attend art school to cure her malaise.
In this cadre of self-appointed elitist students, I faced challenges other than mastering drawing and painting skills. While in high school, I saw art school as a light at the end of a dark adolescent tunnel. I had hoped to advance my skills, perhaps find new friendships and enjoy, finally, a sense of direction and meaning. But art school was just as alienating. The students were not versed in the language of “classical realism”—which I had read about---and to which I was attracted. They responded to my work, at first, with quiet amusement. Their gentle sarcasm turned to hostility. Nicknames were becoming contagious and I became known as “the hungry artist” ---a nickname that was pinned with scorn. It was my fault. When I first arrived at the school, I was asked what kind of an artist I was. I did not entirely understanding the question and answered “a Hungry Artist.” This was met with laughter and derision.
Four months at the school, I began to wonder why I enrolled. This wasn’t a thought that came to full conscious awareness and it remained suppressed in the back of my mind. I was still hopeful that I would learn. I was attracted by the name of the school: The Advent-gurde Progressive Arts School. I didn’t know at the time of enrolment what “advent-gurde” meant, but the catchword “progressive” caught my attention.
The school was a melting pot of scamps and roughs, inhabiting a gaggle of pasty geeks and faux lunatic poseurs, a variable compost of cultural caricatures: pretentious beatniks, gay fashion designers, livid lesbians, vegan hippies, neo-beats and deadbeats, art punks, art fags, art Goths and sullen-art introverts who considered learning how to draw or paint an enormous imposition. Every kid’s face was pierced with dozens of rings with smatterings of tattoos on their face or body. Among this motley crew of mongrels, as I mentioned, I stood out…by not standing out. I did not mingle with these kids, these apprentices of abstract culture.
As far as I was concerned, each gum chewing, attention-challenged automaton had been spiritually lobotomized. They all fitted a blinkered mainstream and I was a proud outsider.
I was out of the loop, completely unfamiliar to the political manoeuvrings of the art school and out of step with the life of New York. I did not understand why the students held our vaguely swishy professor, Ivan Wine, in such high regard. In fact, the students loved him. They attached themselves like flies to a no-pest strip to his every word.
When Ivan Wine entered the class that day, he found Tammy in a state he had become accustomed to: perpetually pissed-off. Her sudden bursts of temper was accepted as a given. She was a handful, it was true, but as far as he was concerned, ill-temper and disagreeableness were traits that simply come with the package that is the artist. Ivan Wine had seen it all. Turning toward Wine, Tammy held her hands out in a gesture of frustrated helplessness: “Victor is desecrating the spirit of this school and everything for which we stand—again!”
Wine motioned for calm, placing his index finger against purse lips. He asked Tammy to regain her composure and to please take a seat. “Yes, sir,” she said dutifully, while shooting me a glance that said: step away from the painting to prepare for the daily lecture. The class took their seats and assembled around Wine.
Ivan Wine was a man given to wearing garish purple clothing as it were a classic black tux fitted for the Opera. He wore dark sunglasses in moderately lit rooms and his shaved head gave the appearance of a dirty tennis ball. When he removed his sunglasses, one was struck with piercing blue eyes set within a narrow face with gaunt cheekbones. His head was large for the emaciated, almost girlish overweight body. He wasn’t very tall, standing at 5’7. His skin was puffy, yellowish with thin lips. He was fifty-five years old, but he was blessed with a smooth ageless face. A tattoo that crawled up from his collarbone to his chin appeared to add to the image of youth.
Wine was the founder of the school. Through this school, he sought to erect a “pedantic myth”—using his words--by employing postmodernist philosophy as his framework, hoping that this would give his school a unique signature. He didn’t contribute to postmodernism art too much or its theoretical framework, but he hoped to cash in on it. He presented himself as postmodernism’s greatest defender, purporting great insight into its meaning and purpose.
As Wine began his speech, Tammy turned to the student nearest her and whispered: “He’s a genius.” I winced, turning to look at my surroundings. Wine’s voice faded out in my mind, becoming the sound of someone speaking into a pillow, and it was the room that took my notice. It looked like a dungeon--at worst--and a wine cellar, at best. The kiln brown-red brick that made up the walls was circa 1920s. It was a poorly lit room filled with canvasses, brushes, paints, cans, frames, filthy clothes and art supplies. A row of easels circled the room. My attention having went full circle, from one end of the room to the other, landing back on the students, who sat before the enigmatic flamboyantly purpled attired teacher. Wine’s words came back into my focus as if someone had turned up the volume on a stereo. Either from curiosity or boredom, I decided to listen in:
“The artist is seen as a curious creature, but he is nevertheless deeply admired for his rare talents,” he said, pacing back and forth, before his attentive students. An index finger rested against the palm of his hand. “He is admired for his so-called God-given talent and for his devotion to create masterful works for his fellow human beings that they themselves cannot create. Ideally, the artist should be seen as an altruistic creature, willing to live in poverty and obscurity, his only quest to enrich the spiritual life of the community. But the capitalistic endeavour to seek wealth and fame from one’s art degrades his art. Oh, yes, wealth and fame is sometimes thrust upon him, but such a state should never be the artist’s quest. People find inspiration in works of art--mired in the physical world as they are--and that art is cheapened if mired in enterprise. The true artist’s quest is to create art for art’s sake - his art is above the crass consumer society. Yes, let it be said again and again---the true artist is a solitary misfit who is above petty materialistic luxuries. This, I submit, is the genuine artist. This is the starving artist” Wine’s voice dropped to a baritone and his eyes narrowed and then he said with measured effect: “Ladies and gentlemen, become artists.”
Wine’s luxuriant speaking voice boomed out across the room, a theatrical voice capable of being heard in a large auditorium so that even half-deaf audiences could hear every syllable as if sitting center stage. There was an English lilt to his voice which had become “Americanized”—this being his term.
In a display of false modesty, Wine said: “Well, perhaps I have said enough.”
“Don’t stop now, Mr. Wine!” Tammy exhorted her beaming teacher and the class followed suit. This admiration encouraged Wine and he pressed on in full. He walked back and forth the floor, as if following a single straight line painted across the patch of ground he walked. His booming voice railed on:
“In this class, we will be focusing on creating art. We will not be focusing on marketing art. This is not a marketing class. This is not a business school. We are artists! We will be focusing on progressive art—not representational art. This is not an advertising agency, and in case you know nothing of history…the Renaissance is over. The days of painting the same old canards—half-naked woman in states of undress is over.” Wine’s eyes levelled the room like lava and the eyes of the student’s eyes were moisture. “I’m telling you now –and let it penetrate your young skulls – art and business make for strange bed fellows! Do you want to be artists or business men? I say, with great certainty and hope, you want to be artists!”
The class muttered its affirmation like a jungle tribe by the fire, the room becoming a flutter of doleful head shakes and clearly pronounced avowals of agreement. Nobody was more vocal than Tammy White. “Right on, man,” she called out, looking about to see if the others shared her degree of enthusiasm. The teacher smiled at Tammy, continuing his leisurely pace, summing up his thoughts, as if he were an attorney leading to the conclusion of his case. When Wine completed his speech, Tammy applauded with such vigour that it sounded as if the smacks were being drawn by a leather belt against a side of beef. “Right on, man! Right on!” The student’s enchantment was now complete.
As far as I was concerned, Wine projected both the saint and sinner. Both images, in this case, were unsavoury. As a saint, the image that came to mind was one of a faith healer supposedly healing the afflicted in assembly line fashion. As a sinner, one was reminded of a hair tonic barker selling a worthless liquid to balding narcissists. The truth was that Wine believed in his own dribble. There was no trace of insincerity could not be detected. I did not buy the bunkum that Wine spewed and this put me in considerable hot water with the other students.
****
Wine asked me to remain at the end of the class. I shrugged and nodded compliance. The class emptied, the teacher motioned for me to take a seat. Grabbing the nearest chair with a flourish, I sat in it backwards, tapping my fingers on the wooden back.
Wine pasted on an ingratiating smile and sat across from me. “You don’t seem to fancy the school affections, do you?”
“The a-a-affect…the what?”
“How old are you, Victor…if you don’t mind my asking?”
“I’m Twenty-one.”
“Ah, yes, of course. Well, it looks as though I have a good thirty years on you.”
My manner conveyed an impatient intolerance to small talk. This did not go unnoticed and the smile suddenly disappeared from Wine’s face much faster than when it first came.
He got straight to the point: “Are you pulling some kind of stunt?” Before I could utter a response, the teacher shot out a series of objections concluding with: …”if you are trying to draw attention to yourself…”
I held up my hand in protest. “That is not my attention.”
Wine’s smile returned, and this time it did not look warm, but was reminiscent of a wolf that senses the need to prepare for an attack.
“Well, then, what is your attention?”
“I’m trying to learn how to paint.” There was a moment of silence, as Wine touched the tip of his chin.
Then a velvet tone came: “Well, of course, Victor.” “That’s the point of this school. We all want to learn how to paint.”
“I’m trying to find my own voice.” I added.
“Of course.”
I felt as if Wine smirked derisively, or rather that is how I saw it reflected on his face. He answered, attempting to conceal what I had perceived: “You want to find your own individuality? Yes, of course. I understand that. Well, naiveté is a trait of youth.”
I said nothing. I looked Wine squarely in the eye, waiting for him to say something next. He did: “Why caricature?”
I shrugged. “Why not caricature. You gave us an assignment to paint to a person of our choice. I wanted to make it my own. I didn’t want it to be an exact replica of a photograph.”
“That is precisely my point,” Wine said, with sudden animation in voice, feeling he was making progress with the meeting. “I wanted to you and everybody else to paint from a photograph. I wanted to demonstrate to you, and the class, the banality of representational painting in our photographic age.”
“Okay, I understand the lesson. That’s why I chose to do a caricature. My painting is not a banal replica of a photograph. Hey, man, my intention was to express a microcosm, a small fraction of popular culture—or the sub culture—and to shoot it through my own individual prism. I have certain artistic goals that I want to reach…it’s something that I want to achieve. I have the imagination. I want to learn the craft and techniques of painting.” I pointed to the broad expanse of clear white canvases. “I want to express my own feelings and thoughts onto those. I don’t think I can do that effectively…if I don’t know the basics.” My eyes rested on the canvasses. It was as if they calling out to me to give them form and identity. My voice then fell to a near whisper: “I want to paint for my own satisfaction—and I want to make a living from my work. That’s why I’m here.” I tore my eyes off of the canvasses and they fell back on Wine. “Almost everything I’ve seen here, so far, goes against my instincts.” My statement was direct and without defiance. It was said as if I were simply stating my right to breath.
“Why of course,” Wine said, the velvet in his voice returned, only now more exaggerated than a caricature sketch. “There are some things you need to take into account. For over twenty-five hundreds humanity has learned new ways to create artistic expression, some of it very unorthodox. An artist who wishes to explore new terrain would do well from learning all he can from those who have gone before. If we are to express our, um, originally, we must not repeat the traditions of the past.”
I made a motion to speak, but Wine held his hand to hold me off.
“You are safe in the world of illustrations. You can work fairgrounds dishing out caricatures or you can work for an advertising agency creating disposable art, such as storyboards. And disposable is what it is; nobody reveres a storyboard artist. Their work does not hang in galleries and museums. You want to be recognized as an artist, Victor. Yes, and even though in some circles illustration can be considered as ‘art’ it will always remain inferior to gallery-sanctioned art. That bothers you, I’m sure. My speculation is that you want your peers, and eventually, I’m very positive, the art world to recognize that caricature as—potentially—an art form.”
“That’s not true,” I answered evenly. “I want to be recognized as an artist…because I am an artist. That’s first and primary. I’m an artist…who can paint and draw caricatures.” I said nothing else, a seconds passed between us.
I observed that Wine’s face was an expressionless mask, and that his eyes were icy with disapproval.
The bottom line to this little slice-of-life recall: the school was much more concerned with “expressing” than learning actual drawing and painting skills. That may very well be okay with other artist types, but it was not in the interest of this artist. I wanted to learn how to draw—than to break “the rules” if I so chose—and I wanted to learn how to paint—to paint outside of my drawn lines—if I so chose. I was the misfit among a cadre of faux misfits.
I left the school and I eventually went on to teach myself how to draw. What I learned…is what you now see in my art.
:}