Dune Acres, 1991

I will now introduce the second set of three drawings by Virginio Ferrari that I was able to acquire as a result of the quest I outlined in the last posting. These are from a series of colored charcoals that he calls “Dune Acres”, which were done in 1991, while working from Dune Acres, Indiana (on the southern shore of Lake Michigan). They are each additionally subtitled “Tre Forme”; I don’t recall whether there are other works from the same series that I saw with a different number of forms as the subject.

The first two in this set are 29″ x 23″ (framed out to 34″ x 28″) and are drawn on vellum. The third one (not shown to proper relative scale here) is wider at 36-1/2″ x 18″ (framed out to 42″ x 23″) and is done on paper.

Unlike many of the other works on paper that I had the pleasure and the privilege of browsing through in the studio (a little more on those, below), these drawings are fully executed and polished works. The colors and the shadings, in the shapes and in the backgrounds, are expressively stroked and textured. The geometry and stance of each of the forms depict a distinct character, and the interactions between the players are dramatic and provocative and, I believe, even narrative. There are other really nice pieces from this series (done in both formats mentioned above, and perhaps others), which explore additional aspects of color, shape, and interaction.

Collective Works of Virginio Ferrari

In addition to the Gestos and Dune Acres series of drawings that I have introduced in these last two posts, I have seen a number of other different styles of drawing and paintings done by Virginio Ferrari, spanning many years and periods of his art. However, Mr. Ferrari’s primary creative output (and subject of renown) is his sculpture, so I think his most important works on paper are those that refer directly to his sculptural pieces and/or process. There are early sketches in which you can see the germination of sculptural forms, there are studies and variations on forms that have been more concretely developed, and there are completed representations of specific, readily identifiable public and private pieces. They cover the range from loose impromptu sketches to careful technical drawings that specify final (or hear-final) forms for construction and/or installation.

Many of his individual drawings or paintings work as stand-alone pieces of art, worthy of displaying and collecting. Many of them also work as part of a set of closely related items, creating an even greater impression when viewed together, or in some arrangement with one another. But the most significant way of considering his works on paper, is as a collective whole. They reflect a long and ongoing sequence and journey of viewpoint and reflection, of creation and re-creation, of experience and progression to new ideas and new expressions and new stages in a life and in a career. I have been fortunate enough to see, and spend time with, a number of Virginio Ferrari’s works, both sculptural as well as drawn/painted, assembled together (more than once, actually). Though I can’t collect all of the works, the ones that I do have are a token and a channel into a larger body of work that I admire and have long had personal connections with.

This is a post I have been looking forward to writing for a while, since it covers a long(ish) personal quest to get reacquainted with—and perhaps even acquire—several works of art that captivated me at first glimpse more than twenty years ago. Along the way, I have evolved and deepened (I would like to think) my appreciation for contemporary art and artists, through a continually developing interest, exploration, conversation, thought, and perhaps just the passage of time (which means, of course, “growing up”). Here’s the story, which is also long(ish)—I’ll try and keep it manageable.

Acquaintance

In 1990, my friend Alberto took me to his father’s studio in Chicago one night. His father is Virginio Ferrari, who is a well-known sculptor, with many public and private pieces around the world, especially around Verona (where he is from) and Chicago (where he moved to in the 1960s). As we entered the studio, even before turning on the lights, I could see shapes and figures looming and lurking—perched, posed and reposed—barely revealed by the dim ambient street light leaking through the windows. And then with the lights switched on, I could see their faces and torsos, their skin and bones, their stances and personas—of steel and aluminum and bronze—finished pieces, works in process, or some of them only ideas just starting to take shape.

I walked slowly among the pieces—some of which looked and reached outward to us and to each other, some of which sat introverted in their spaces—treading a path through constructed spaces, stoic monuments, and moments captured in time. I wasn’t able to say how much of geography and landscape of this abstracted world was purposeful and how much was perhaps chance arrangement. In either case, it seemed the authentic condensation of an artist’s perception, interpretation, and expression of the real world.

We probably spent the better part of an hour there. In addition to the maquettes and completed sculptures, there were drawings hanging high on the walls and in bins. I knew of the sculptures previously, having seen several of Mr. Ferrari’s public works around Chicago (and private works in their house), but these drawings were new to me. They represented working sketches of sculptural works and elements, but also abstract ideas and studies on form and color and texture. I was blown away. The studio made such an impression on me that I was unable to go to sleep that night. Instead I stayed up mulling and reliving the visit, and ended up writing a four-page poem called “Studio by Night”.

Reacquaintance (and new discoveries)

In late 1991, I moved back to California, and my interaction with my Chicago friends (shamefully, on my part) reduced to a mere trickle. As my interest in art grew, I would periodically ask Alberto to see if his father was willing to sell any of his drawings. The answer was always a little vague, until just before a visit back to Chicago in May of 2012. I asked Alberto about the drawings again, and this time he said his father would be happy to oblige. During the trip to town, Alberto and I went to the studio (along with our friend Fred), which had at that point moved to Wabash in the South Loop, to look through the drawings (as well as the sculptures, of course). It was amazing, flipping through drawer after drawer of flat files.

In addition to the drawings, some of which I had remembered from before, I discovered a beautiful set of prints: aquatints and etchings, in brown and black and red and green and blue. The prints were proofs of images done for an illustrated fine press edition of poems (“Mottetti”) by Eugenio Montale, published by a company called Raphael Fodde Editions. Also in one of the drawers was a copy of the book (gorgeous book), and several letters discussing the preparation and publication of the book, addressed to Virginio Ferrari, from Raphael Fodde.

As we explored the paper works, Alberto took pictures on his phone of the ones I said I was interested in. We also pulled out, separately, several drawings and several prints that particularly impressed themselves on me. There were so many fascinating ideas and themes and set of works that it was difficult to choose. It was unbelievably exciting.

Minor Interruption

The going was slow, since there were so many works, and it was worthwhile looking at every single one that we could. With many more drawers of drawings (and who knows what else) to go through, Alberto remembered that he had to feed to parking meter outside. He said Fred and I could stay and continue working through the portfolios, but we said we would come down with him. We went out and fed the meter, but when we got back to the studio, we couldn’t get back in the door. The lock had broken, and they key was not working. We had to leave, task undone. Me, disappointed, but at least gratified at having started the process. It was okay, though, since I was sure that (with Alberto’s assistance) I would be able to complete the quest, at some point.

Fulfillment

Sure enough, a year later, I was back in Chicago (what’s one year, when it’s been a twenty-year journey?), and back in the studio (moved again, this time to Bridgeport). I was able to pick out several drawings that I really wanted (six, to be exact, across two different series of works). In the process, I was able to start up a very nice conversation with Mr. Ferrari, who I had known only incidentally when I was in high school (mostly greeting in passing, when visiting Alberto at his home), but never spent any time really talking to. He was gracious enough to let me purchase the works that I selected.

The Artist

Virginio Ferrari is one of the “true artists” that I spoke of in my Words and Art posting. He is a lifelong, and full-life, explorer and philosopher and communicator through his art. His art must be able to interact with the people it is intended for, as well as with the space in which it is installed. He insists on having a hand in every construction and every installation, otherwise the art will not feel (yes, I’m saying art has feelings!!!), and be felt, in the right way.

His works are often simultaneously beautiful and enigmatic and powerful and touching. Pieces from some of his periods are strongly organic in form and character. Other works and other periods appear to be purely geometric, but to me there always seems to be an inspiration and a spirit at its core that inescapably comes from nature. The pieces always seem to represent an emotional or corporeal essence, or a lifecycle process, or a relationship between entities.

And now, finally, to the art.

Gestos, 1977

I’ll close this post by showing three of the pieces from my quest. These are from a larger series of charcoal-on-paper drawings that Mr. Ferrari calls Gestos (“gestures”, in English), done in 1977.

These are horizontal works on paper, but I floated them in vertical frames (30” x 36”) because I wanted to hang them as a set (in my dining room). I find that these pieces have a strong tie-in with Virginio Ferrari’s sculptural work, yet I see in them new clues to some conceptions or aspects of the sculpture that are obscure, or in some cases, completely hidden (whether or not by intent).

These drawings show circular forms, as well as apparent surfaces (curved and straight) that meet, either intersecting or tangentially melding and supporting each other. Through the years, Mr. Ferrari has realized these kinds of geometries in three dimensions, on a large scale (as well as smaller scale), in metal and in stone. To me, the special insight offered by these drawings is in the textures and the colors of the forms.

The texture in the charcoal shading is coarse-grained, but reassuringly intrinsic and organic, somewhere between finely hewn veiny granite and overlapping patterns in brushed metal. It conveys an agnosticism, or perhaps an ambiguity, in the envisaged surface skin of a physical monument that would follow in the likeness of each sketch. Or maybe it indicates an artist’s sentiment that the physical piece can be effected in one of a number of materials or finishes, each with an individual and significant reason for being.

As far as I know, most of Mr. Ferrari’s sculptures during the period of the drawings are generally of a single material (metal or stone), or sometimes two contrasting materials—in either case, with the natural hues of the materials honored—monochromatic and hard. Thus, the drawings, with their polychromatic strokes, whether signifying levity or profundity, are a surprise and a revelation. They suggest to me that perhaps within the stark materials and finishes candidly exposed in the works of the period, there were also deeply imbued inner voices, and purely imaged gestures of color, for us to conceptualize and perceive on our own.

These drawings are highly expressive in their own right, but their relationship with—and enlightenment of—Virginio Ferrari’s larger body of important work, make them incredibly cherished to me.

A few years ago, I was talking to my friend Skip about a guy at work who represented himself as an authority on cars and computing (two topics that will always get Skip’s attention). I said something like, “Todd [not his real name] told me blah blah blah [something or another about cars and/or computing]”. Skip, who has a scary-sharp wit (both finely pointed, and with dangerous cutting ability), responded, “Well, Todd is full of—[dramatic pause]…information”. Brutal! (For you kids out there, that’s like old-school for “lol” in this context, but better.)

Thus, I feel I need to make clear that I absolutely do not claim to represent any kind of authoritative knowledge or definitive interpretation of the art and artists introduced and discussed in these pages. And as I have previously said, I actually don’t actively seek that knowledge or interpretation (which collectively, can be considered the mysterious “understanding”, alluded to in the past). These are not postings about—[dramatic pause]…information; I am not full of it. Rather, these are expositions of my personal feelings and responses and ruminations on these subjects related to art. To me, that’s what art should be about.

Some people who know me would say that I do obsessive information(!!!)-hoarding on various topics. I would beg to differ (for the most part, at least). Yes, I dig deep on certain areas of interest, though it is never for the sake of filling myself with information(!!!). But a lot of the time, I just find myself within a confluence of activities and persuasions that catalyze into discoveries and insights.

After I am introduced to someone, or meet them for the first time, I don’t then immediately follow up by checking them out on social media (if you look up my Facebook page, you will find a testament to this), and I don’t call to grill their parents on how or where they were conceived or born, and what they were like growing up as kids. I try and get to know them for who they are, through the continuing interactions that our relationship is built on.

The same goes for art, and their artists. What I learn or come to believe, either actively or passively, is purely a consequence of following or just gravitating toward intellectual or aesthetic or emotional intrigues and compulsions (and for art, “intellectual” is the least important of the three). For me, there actually is no driving motivation, there is no defined objective, there is no identifiable endpoint. The quest proceeds on its own terms. Sometimes there is a rush of understanding (which could be through getting to know their siblings or childhood friends or neighbors, for instance). Sometimes the understanding stalls. Sometimes the understanding stews and develops, leading to new avenues of exploration, or upending other understandings and forcing a wide-spread reconsideration.

So, in discussing the works of Raphael Fodde (or later, other artists), I present no answers. Don’t look for them here.* Instead, I present reflections and speculations. I present some facts, but I probably also present some fallacies (so, please excuse me). I present some understandings, but I’m sure I also present some misunderstandings (a human prerogative). And there are countless things not presented here that I don’t know (just yet, in some cases), or that I don’t happen to—or care to—share.

How’s that for fine print?

Okay, onto the art.

Here are two series of prints by Raphael Fodde that I feel are truly special. In view of the sideways disclaimer above, I will say relatively little about them. Contrary to other possible presentations of the works (and to be real!), I will tell you that I believe the pictures here will not speak for themselves. They can only offer you a glimpse at several powerful and finely crafted works, which you will then have to use your contextual understanding and imagination to extend into an artistic experience and impact (until you can come see them for yourself). My purpose here is to show you additional depths of Raphael Fodde’s expressive means and printmaking skills.

The first set, entitled “The Disaster of War”, captures his reaction to the suffering caused by the recent wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. The technique is chine-collé (etching imprinted on fine tissue, which is pressed into beautiful, laid Magnani paper), and the platemarks are only three inches on each side (even mounted and framed, the works are only 11 by 13.5 inches).

This is from my email response to Raphael after seeing them upon receipt:

The war series is very moving, the figures are debased, dehumanized (faceless and headless), tortured, and utterly powerless. […] the small size is a powerful mechanism, you don’t really see the flesh and muscles and the degree of suffering until you get close, and then it hits you hard. The chine-collé is very fine and wonderful, you are a real master.

The tissue is so thin that you can see every textured detail of the handmade paper it is mounted on, and it sets the sad images on a grim pall. Three of the figures are either bound or discarded and destined for oblivion, but the figure walking up stairs is defiant, even in death. These will hang in my library (recently converted from an unused bedroom), initially in the artist’s numbered order (presented here). But I suspect that different arrangements of the images will evoke their own narratives and resulting emotions, which I may come to experience, and get to know and think about, over time.

The second set is entitled “Paradiso”, and is owned by my friend Celeste (who I thank for letting me share them here). These are drypoints printed from different states of the same plate. There is a background layer of lighter lines, over which the foreground lines are etched.** To put the works into size perspective, the sheets are just under 9 by 13.5 inches.

To me, this is a very remarkable and important work. It is one set of three printed, with no other proofs in existence (or possible, anymore). One of the other sets is in the Biblioteca Sormani in Milan, and the last set is in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York (along with the plate). This work not remarkable and important because it is in the Met; but rather it is in the Met because it is remarkable and important.

Arranged in sequence, the prints represent the chronology of a painstaking detailed printmaking process, as well as the evolution and lifecycle of a physical entity, the plate, which can also be regarded as the “brush” for this work. But the title suggests that the prints also represent a spiritual journey through the celestial spheres of Heaven, or perhaps any spiritual journey. So when I look at the overall piece, I see these ideas superimposed and intertwined and inextricable—the passage of time, endeavor and accomplishment, exaltation and sublimation—simultaneously drawing from, and inspiring, each other. I, at once, see states of being, as well as a stream of mysteries.

Are the in-between states part of the work as well? What about the states before the first impression was made, or after the last print was made and the plate retired?

And what if the prints were to be arranged in a different order? Would that disrupt the journey, and break up the work; or would that depict a new transcendent path through the heavens? Are there an infinity of such transcendent paths?

Where is the empyrean within this work? Or is it never shown? Or not yet arrived at?

I’m sure that clues to some of the possible understandings are with the artist. I may find out more from Raphael over the course of our interactions, either by asking (if or when it feels right) or as part of the natural flow of the conversation. Or I may not. Some of the clues may be in the Metropolitan Museum, with the plate—which in all likelihood I may never get to see. But, however many or however few of these clues come my way doesn’t really matter to me. I believe that the most important understanding of this work—whichever copy, in whichever arrangement—will always be in the mind and the spirit of the beholder.

---

* Some would say there are no answers in art, and I might agree if I thought that that meta-question could be answered, or even addressed…ad infinitum.

** A quick note on terminology: some sticklers actively refuse to associate the term “drypoint” directly with either “etching” or “engraving”, claiming that it is a completely distinct technique. However, it is quite natural, and also relatively common, to say “drypoint etching” or “drypoint engraving technique”, since drypoint has elements of both etching and engraving (lowercase “e” in both cases). So, I accept, and even embrace, either compound description, stickler-istic definitions be damned. [The irony here is that I am such a sticker about many things, but in the case of drypoint here, and monotype vs. monoprint previously, I have specific and defensible reasons to flout the stickler party line.]

Before I post the next picture, I’d like to talk a little about pictures of art.  As with words about art, pictures of art are also (though differently) inadequate substitutes for actually experiencing or interacting with art—for seeing it or touching it, or even being in the same room or space as the art.  To me, it’s somewhat similar to getting to know people.  You can read stories or books about people, you can see pictures or videos of people, but you aren’t really able to connect with them or be affected by them the same way as if you meet them, and spend time with them, and look into their eyes, and laugh (or cry) with them.  I’m not saying you can’t be moved by stories about people (or art)—clearly, you can—, but perhaps in those cases you are responding to their personas and their deeds and their circumstances and their travails and their triumphs, as told to you by a skilled raconteur, rather than actually being touched by the corporeal person.

I don’t want to carry this analogy too far, since there are other ways to interact with people, and get to know them, and build genuine and powerful relationships (e.g. through letters, phone calls, email, [gulp] social media, etc.) that don’t apply to art (at least, not yet), but you get my drift.  The point I’m trying to make is that any pictures of art that I share here are absolutely not the art itself, but just references to it.  They are visual descriptions that complement the words I write in an attempt to convey my personal thoughts and feelings about my experiences with art.  In no way can the pictures properly stand-in for, or truly express, the real essence—the being—of the art itself.  And yes, works of art are beings.  They are created, they live and undergo an individual journey, and they will eventually die.  But, their having existed, and their having had the power to relate and to influence and to inspire, cannot be taken away.

A further disclaimer: while I will try my best to post decent pictures of the works of art in my possession, the photographic quality will certainly be variable, due to limitations of equipment, skill, opportunity, and patience.  I apologize up-front, especially to the artists, for representations here that don’t fully serve the dignity of the works.

Here is a set of works by Raphael Fodde that represent a different type of printmaking than I showed in the last posting.  He calls these monoprints, though I think some sticklers would insist on calling them monotypes, since there are no permanent/reusable, distinctive features in the plate (as far as I can tell).  I’m going to get technical for a second here.  To me, a monotype is a form of monoprint, in which the “features” in the plate are the inherent or incidental textures and marks.  Or, to put it another way, the “feature” is basically just a big flat surface.  Many in the art world will say this definition is plain wrong, but that is the taxonomy I am going with here (and history may be on my side, since the two terms have often been used interchangeably in the past).

These are the works that Raphael describes as suggesting nothing but “abstraction, serenity, solitude, prayer”.  The first one is a folding card, printed on very nice art stock.

A side view shows the true nature of the work: a “sculpture-object”, as Raphael called it in an email comment, upon seeing this picture of the framing with the card slightly ajar.

The frame guards the personal message inside, though it also teases by offering a scant glimpse.  The colors are deep and lustrous, and the boundaries between them are crisp but not hard.  Though it may seem in pictures that the blocks of color are homogenous and featureless, in real life, they express the subtle and regal textures in the paper, the complex geometries of the pebbly surface as well as the underlying fibrous nature.  The latter is accentuated along the deckled edges.  The work is at once serene and vibrant.

And here are two monoprints done on imperial Japanese paper (the blue one is owned by Celeste, the other one is mine).  The paper is so fine as to be nearly translucent, yet it is able to be imbued with such confident tones.  And, as with the purple monoprint card, the paper itself determines so much of the character of the works—how it holds the ink, how it reveals (or doesn’t reveal) artifacts from the plate and/or the printing process, and how it show its own essential nature and structure.

Note that these are both relatively large pieces (17.5 x 21 and 13.75 x 19.75 inches, respectively), almost impossibly large, it seems to me, for paper this fine and fragile.  It’s hard to imagine how these works were achieved, yet here they are.  They are exquisite.  For these two prints in particular, pictures are completely unable to connote the feelings effected by the works.  They must be seen, and contemplated, in person.

One more post to come on the printed works of Raphael Fodde (for the time being), then onto some works by Virginio Ferrari. Stay tuned.