The Smell Was Terrible

It was terrible.  What was it?  Where did it come from?  It was everywhere.  How could things so beautiful, people so full of intelligence and talent exist in such stench?  Couldn't they with their work live apart from that odor, why couldn't they smell or see it?  The only explanation is they never left it long enough to experience clean air. They did not carry the pungency of what would waft, except when they sighed.   They did carry the look of the smell.  They spake and behaved and moved the way some smokey gas does.  I guess sedation only allows certain behaviors, but this unnatural gas was suffocation and sedation at once.  It caused them to move sluggishly, heavily, jerkily.   They twitched and thrashed about nervously, desperately and involuntarily.  It was as though they suffered under a surgeon's scalple barely anesthasized, unable to scream out "stop, it hurts"!  They could only exhale and emit the odious smell, they did have the glory of the human shape however.   All their disturbed ongelation oozed, spewed and spirted were colors and paint.  Smudge, rub, daub, brush, wipe, throw, drizzle, pour,  bleed, mix and taste colors, all in dead light. But somehow, what they made was luminous, transcendent, curious, intelligent, beautiful, naive and good.  Their work was what remained of their humananity after life in the fume, paint is how they chronicled the truth. 

He was overwhelmed.  He took three steps down; the odor made him palegic, and nauseous, his shoulders slumped and he wretched.  A blow to the back of the head, accompanied with a yank by the scruff of the neck pulled him from the dank stairwell.  Something told him, "don't go down there - it's difficult to return if you do." 

The young man was annoyed by his apprehension and rationality,  he imagined the appearance of cowardice to be worse then the sick smell he encountered.  He was not afraid of the odor, but frankly did not want to waste his life, you see he was told he might be anything.  That night his mind cast a, if not reasoned, definitely creative interpretation of his experience. In the dream a much older version of himself solidly explained, what lay at the bottom of the stairwell and beyond was an experiment in human fermentation.  Of course, many of his more pragmatic friends never accused him of imaginings less than wild.  So, he forced thoughts upon himself to make his left brain boast. He told himself his dream had been too Wells, too Wachowskian.  He reasoned, once fermented what more precious thing could be made to grow than human potential, and besides what agent would concoct such a plot?  Nevertheless, he couldn't help but imagine the old men, and mature women, and young men and  women, and children, and dogs, and cats, and rats, and stories, and pictures might be seen, though what lived did slog. They breathed air so heavy it pressed cement, and sod, and dirt, and tar, and clay, and every manner of fill to make a sink hole they could wait and exist in until anything happened.  Few could explain from whence the stairs came,  it was only said they're not easily climbed.  Still, no vision, or dream, or nightmare could be so good as what would be learned with one descent into the stairwell lit like a Caravaggio.

Written by George Tuber

Gradually, Just Gradually...

Although highly distractible the boy knew he eventually wanted to paint pictures. Early on he managed to fit in some saleable drawings for folks who knew little about art, but simply wanted something nice to look at. He did his best work when he was alone. His ability improved when he drew by himself because there was no one to ask questions or time him. He thought the school's studio was where one learned techniques; so, when there he'd find the most challenging perspective to draw any still life. This initially affected the quality of his work as there was much he needed to learn, so he garnered little attention from his instructor. However, when away from her there was no assignment on perspective, no stopwatch; so art was more like meditation for him. Also, when he looked at his art, any art, legions of questions would march into his brain like soldiers who await detachment. He would draw, look, read and think to figure out the answers; for these reasons made things struck him with quietness. Mostly people paid for pictures in compliments; therefore, he grew less apprehensive and loved to discuss his work. Until as an adolescent in his tenth year, just before his studio period, he brought his art teacher a drawing he'd done at home. He realized his limited experience was unable to answer questions that made certain demands on him. On this occasion, he only wanted a few pointers but before he could speak his teacher asked, "did you do this?" She didn't wait for an answer, rather, she said with abrupt doubtfulness, "you didn't do this". He first thought her blat to be a set up for a compliment, but no, she was sincerely incredulous. She really did not believe it was his fist that drew that. She stared at the drawing for a moment, then asked to hold it at her desk. The work was returned at the end of class without another word about it. Gradually he learned the few involuntary words followed by silence confirmed a general notion among some academics, to them it was unlikely for one such as himself to have gotten away with talent. Nevertheless, these taciturn moments soiled and seeded his mind with the idea that he could do better than just draw nice pictures for friends. How much better? Time will tell. You see a desire to understand the universe, even God would run parallel to his propensity to draw and eventually paint pictures, one cannot "slave for two masters"; however, he would gradually understand the master is in the motive. That moment with the art teacher began the requisite disorientation all painters go through before they set up shop. For some reason those who choose oil paint as their primary medium are prepared to be what amounts to a side dish. The process sometimes begins with a question: what do you want to do for a living? A one word response can siphon any prospective support for the boys' future. All he has to do is say paint, and the prep work begins. First he is lightly patronized and made to simmer, then brazed with sarcasm, ridicule, criticism and overt apathy. Understandably, most artistic minds are seared over, but this locks in one's creative juices and makes what's inside more tender, which thus improves quality. Next, well, many painters find their particular sauce and henceforth get stewed. Finally the painter is prepared to be served to the world and comfortably digested, but before the reveal he is delicately garnished with suspicion, thereby successfully placed as a side dish. He is marginalized. This prep-work is undertaken by everyone, not to mention left brains. It wittingly sops up good will toward the potential painter so he is more easily devoured. Able to discern the possibility of this eventuality, he tried to quit, but it wouldn't take. You see, without the tools of a painter in hand his quirks seemed lunatic. At least when he drew and painted there was an explanation for certain habits, he had an identity. Really though, he need not have worried, painters are unmistakable. Mediums may be as varied as the measurements of a face, yet the artist who paints craves to finish canvases in oil and egg. So, eventually drawing became painting, it couldn't be helped, the boy breathed what the dutchman ate. Consequently, he gradually nurtured what came naturally and began to paint as he was so inclined. He did however, find his inclination rather steep.

By George Tuber

      Becoming an Artist Despite Support (A Struggling...)



Learning From Monet's Impressionist Sunrise
By JC 7 Yrs. Old

 For most every painter there is some support. You have for instance Vincent Van Gogh's Theo, Michaelangelo's Medici and Monet for Pissarro, but how does one live as an artist without support - a day job? Painters beleive painting is their day job. Even while he is hard up, if he is confident, dare I say cocky, the painter deems daubs as dollars saved? This particular dauber has his doubts and thinks he is better suited to some by gone era or lost or found paradise. Claude Monet persistently painted with his family close by before he found and could afford his garden at Giverny. Does a painter really need to foresake everything and everyone for his art, or does he sacrifice self, then paint for everyone else, and does this eventually make him a better artist, even a better person? Today painters past and present are still loved when romanticized but in reality loved less. So, how can one progress in a paradox? Even with rich patrons, parental or family support upstart painters found contentment hard to come by; so, how much more difficult is it to paint without mollycoddlers. What risks are too risky, how can the lone painter advance when the world is so made to order and treated like a meal deal, super sized combo with refills? Yes, even fine artists expedite their work because the market moves so fast. How does true success take root in today's climate? Has oil paint seen better times or does it still stand uniquely placed amidst all other mediums? Today ink and RGB vy for prominence, ecspecially in media, but how well do they translate as fine art? It seems there is a lot to write about on the subject. This blog chronicles the mishaps and misadventures of a middle aged burgeoning painter who has perhaps misplaced his period. It also offers ideas and some sage and not so sage ways to live as an enth century artist in the year 2011(heretofore unless otherwise indicated the thirteenth to nineteenth centuries will be refered to as the enth centuries). If you should stumble upon these thoughts and desire to comment, please understand the writer is impaired as he is inflicted with a pervasive oil paint partiality.                                

Written by George Tuber

Three Children in a Landscape
By Robert G. Coffin IV



As the work just to the left developed two styles came into view, that of John Constable and Claude Monet.  Also,  on the horizon of the painting, I began to understand, just a little, the difficulty with which Inness and Whistler created such smooth surfaces, so consistent in color value.  The need to find color equilibrium is daunting, but worth the effort.  Isolated color, which is less harmonized with the majority of the piece can add the touch of realism and discomfort neccessary to ground a work.  If one is able to pull off harmony and isolation together, it may be just what is needed to ground the painting without using black or brown.  Therefore, I tried my best to use the white on the figure in the middle to ground, center, and create focal point. 

The focal point might then be relied upon to send the eye to the view in front of and behind the three figures.  An effort to only use color was challenged by the patches of dirt and mud in the picture.  Not a drop of black or brown was used in the entire work. 

Written by Robert G. Coffin IV

"To Dream The Impossible Dream"

The internet's digital picture database is officially vast, not to mention imagery archived from the age of analogue. The countless hours to conceive, create, design, construct, then post or publish pictures and video boggles the mind, and is boring to iterate. People spend so much time, so much effort, so much of their consciousness to do what the brain does effortlessly - create and collect pictures. It brings new meaning to the saying, "I could do that in my sleep" but 'I must be dreaming', is hardly ever said in R.E.M. Combinations and amalgams of images, words, thoughts and ideas seem to swirl in our sub-mental, appear; then, organize until we find ourselves in our realm of dreams. Most often we don't know we've dreamt until we wake. The mind conceives, directs, edits; then, produces it's own movie at midnight or three a.m. or during a daytime doze. We read into dreams if we can remember them. Most of us are unable to choose how our dreams will be produced. Will they be in color, black and white, sepia or dual tone? Will it tell a horror or love story? Will it remind us of someone we've lost? What angle will the players be shot from? It seems it depends on the person and the context of all their life. Does it matter if we're mostly right brained or left? I think so. Is there symbolism in dreams? I don't know, I don't think of symbols when I dream. On the other hand the brain has amazing capacity for information storage and retrieval. Sometimes my dreams are just compilations of objects and instances put together in one place. At first the randomness seems senseless, something similar might be said about the sound of some rock or acid jazz. They say you can't dream what you haven't seen, and I can't recall when I have. On the other hand, when awake, we recollect, track and catalogue imagery we dream. Try it and you may find the pictures in your dreams are part of your recent or remote past. Other dreams are evocative of our deepest desire, like to see a dead loved one. When feelings are strong the mind becomes temporal. It traverses time to make a fifty year old feel emotions of a boy of ten, even though he appears to himself as fifty in the dream. He is embraced by his mom who in reality is eighty but appears youthful. He then finds himself in conversation with her about a mop bucket, by this time his mom has the appearance of his sister. The imagery is transient but the dream communicates clearly, the man has mom in mind. Also, unless he tells his dream to a soul he trusts, it's his. How contrary to the medium I use at this moment, or are we all snowed by the illusion of digital privacy? Wanna know a secret? There are none on the internet. Hit send to a friend and your friend and local internet server \ cable company at the very least has what was just known by only you. So, here I've decided to loose my grip on reality, if only for a moment: what an amazing gift it would be to relive tender, private, poignant and important scenes at will; to see our ideas and feelings of nostalgia. What if we could always think of and see our mind's conceptions purposefully and unaided by any electronic device? Mirages, hallucinations and even schizophrenia are samples of the ability to see what's in our mind's eye even while awake. Some see imagery from their brain as sharply as feed on screens. The problem: it's involuntary. These days "i" this and "i" that are everywhere. The marketing is brilliant, but let's not forget the power of the human eye and mind. Hence, a new term, the Eye Mind. Let's hope the Eye Mind eventually puts all the other "i" stuff out of business. Do I dare dream? It seems impossible now, but is the idea completely out of scope with reality? Can one really only dream? Let's hope not, because when it comes to total reliance on electronic visual aids - I mind. For now, hold tight to your dreams, less they slip away as strangely as the realm of privacy. ) :