Periodically, I will post pictures of works of art that I have acquired, or that otherwise pass through my hands or in front of my camera lens. This will be partly to share images and ideas and presentations I find meaningful, and partly to serve as reference points for talking about topics related to art and aesthetics. I will start with two artists whose works I have started collecting in the past year. The first, as alluded to in the previous post, is Raphael Fodde. (The second will be Virginio Ferrari, later this week or early next.)

Raphael is a printmaker in New York, but he draws and paints as well. He has also been a publisher (of fine press books and prints) and a printmaking instructor. I have seen only his printed works in person, though the artistic printmaking process almost always involves various forms of either drawing or painting, or both. Chemistry (or perhaps, alchemy?), for inks and etching solutions, and detailed craftsmanship are intrinsic; and in the case of intaglio printing, serious machinery and the application/harnessing of large physical force also come into play. Especially when the paper is very fine (Japanese tissue, for instance), there is an exquisite juxtaposition of delicacy and muscularity that must be carefully orchestrated and deftly executed. To me, printmaking—what I understand of it—is all of polymathic, multi-disciplinary, and esoteric. Or, in a word, sublime.

Here are two sugar lift etchings done by Raphael at the Rochester Institute of Technology during an invited visit in 2005 (you can look up details about the technique on the internet, noting that Wikipedia’s description is currently pretty darn weak). The first print, entitled “Variation for a Symphony #7”, is the seventh in what appears to be a limited open-ended edition (you can figure out what I mean by that); I believe that ten pieces, or perhaps just a few more, have been printed to date (my friend Celeste has #10).

The second work is untitled, from an edition of six.

I love that the two images, from the same period and venue, and using the same etching process, are both so striking, yet very different from each other. The first one is orderly and restrained, and there is a soft velvety feel to the small round shapes. The second one is organic and freer, and the larger shape is matte and unfathomable, like a cat with its back turned toward you. Both pieces have great toning and other artifacts from the plate, and the platemarks are delineated awesomely, in ink as well as in impressure.

There are a few topics I want to introduce and discuss in the context of these two pieces. The first topic has to do with matting and framing (note that I generally choose all of the frame moldings, mats, dimensions, etc. for works on paper that I acquire, and do all of the assembly myself, other than frame construction). You will notice that the frames are unexpectedly large for these prints, especially the “Variation” print. There are several reasons for this.

The first reason is for coherence. The frame are, in fact, the same size (23 x 30 inches). And furthermore, they are the same size and molding as for another piece as well (by Virginio Ferrari), which I will present later. For me (and this is purely personal), these three pieces are familially related, though (as you will see) not equilaterally. Putting them all in the same frame embodies this connectedness to me, whether they are situated near each other or not.

The second reason is to preserve the integrity of the paper. Both are printed on large sheets of high quality art paper (possibly Arches?), with nice deckle edges. For different reasons, I have chosen to mat the prints, rather than float them full-sheet. The larger frame allows them to be matted without having to trim the sheets, which would be a shame and a disrespect. The smaller print (“Variation”) was actually printed off-center on the sheet. When I chose the matting/framing for this piece, I had assumed this asymmetry was because it was an artist’s proof and not a published print, so I decided to mat it out to center the image in the frame (to “correct” it), even though it meant covering up a very nice personal inscription at the bottom of the sheet. Only later, after seeing several other impressions from this edition (including Celeste’s #10), did I realize that the positioning of the plate on the sheet was very apparently deliberate. In talking to Celeste about how she wanted to frame her piece, we decided to float the full sheet in the frame, highlighting the off-center nature of the print (I will post a picture of it when it is done). This will more truly honor the intent of the artist. I told her I thought Raphael would be delighted with the choice; I hope I am right.

Another topic that I think about often when it comes to art is how context information affects the way you view, and understand (a very elusive concept when it comes to art), and appreciate an individual work. Context information can include knowledge and experience with the media and/or technique, background of—and familiarity with—the artist (along with his/her reputation, body of work, etc.), and insight into the inspiration/intent, origins/circumstances, or history of the particular piece.

There is actually no pattern or overall approach I take to seeking, or not seeking, this context information. Sometimes I know (or think I know) more; sometimes I know less. Sometimes I know next to nothing. And someone else’s context (knowledge, experience, etc.) regarding a genre or an artist or a piece—and hence, their views and feelings—will very certainly be different. In addition, it is important to recognize that things are not always static in relation to art. Your knowledge and experience, your beliefs and temperament, and the art itself (or the artist—or even the world) all change with time, whether evolving slowly, or periodically spiking, or taking random walks and returning home. The art you see, any day, can be a comfort or a challenge or a revelation.

I don’t believe there is a right way or a wrong way to look at or appreciate art for yourself. But I, personally, am always careful when discussing art with others, since this philosophy is not universal. To some people, there are truths and fallacies and inexcusable ignorances. I always try and make it clear that my declarations and comments represent my personal perspectives and understandings (there’s that word again) and interpretations and emotions.

For me, I find that sharing experiences can greatly enhance my appreciation of, and relationship with, a work of art, or a collection of works. And I suspect the same is true for others, as well. That’s why I think it is always rewarding to find means of expression (whether based on words or body language or facial disposition or overt actions) with which you can interact with others—to draw from, or react/respond to, or just contemplate each others’ viewpoints. And the “others” may be friends, or various people interested in the same art, or professionals (whatever that means), or the artists themselves. You don’t have to make this effort to communicate, or to bond as a consequence; that’s your choice. But I do, and I try. That’s why I am writing this entry (and several to follow).

As I was posting the last entry, on expressing myself without words, it occurred to me that that’s really what art is, or at least attempts to be (putting aside for the moment the art of writing, whether prose or poetry). Why did it not occur to me as I was actually writing the entry, while in Marfa? Quite simply, because I don’t consider myself an artist. I think it is up to the individual to determine whether he (or she*) is an artist—whether his (or her) work should be called “art”. An artist must believe in his work, either the output or even just the process. I am not there, yet—not with my picture taking, photo editing, or any other graphical expression (especially drawing, which I have always been very uncomfortable with). Even though I really do like some of the pieces that I have produced, and other people have said they appreciate them as well, I tend to consider my process and output as “craft” or “design”.

The reason I am so cagey about this distinction is, I think, because I have great reverence for those who live and breathe a high level of commitment to their vision, ideas, and process. Those who have created or uncovered an expression that is individual and heartfelt—an expression that is able to reach others and affect them. Those are the true artists, to me.

I actually have a wonderful ongoing email conversation about the relationship between words and art with one of those true artists, my friend Raphael Fodde. He has given me permission to reprint a few excerpts from our dialog. We got onto the topic originally as I was acquiring various pieces from him (which I will present pictures of, in a later posting). The impact of seeing a new work for the first time can be profound for me. More than once, I have told him that the unwrapping of a particular piece left me “(almost) speechless”, and then I would proceed to write a paragraph (or two, or three) on the experience. Here is one of my responses to his commendation of my use of words in expressing my appreciation of his work:

As you can tell, I try and choose words carefully to convey my thoughts and feelings, but of course words are imperfect mechanisms for representing things as transcendental as human emotions and philosophies and individual perceptions. However, words are part of our repertoire for personal expression—along with a gaze or voice inflection or touch—and for better or worse, written words are the mechanism often used when communicating over distances (of time or place). The wonderful part is that over time, these imperfect individual representations of ourselves (such as words) cumulatively allow us to get to know (and be known by) the people who interest us and concern us and appeal to us. We start to truly feel and be affected by the emotions and beliefs and viewpoints that originated in the other person. It is important to realize in matters of aesthetics—whether it be art or music or food or wine or poetry or literature or dance—that the words we use to talk about them are incomplete and imprecise, and never worthy substitutes. Instead, they are meant to get others to understand by proxy what we feel deeply on the inside. Words can certainly be powerful, if used effectively, though sometimes a single tear can convey more than an entire book.

Even though I am very self-conscious of my over-reliance on wordiness, I clearly understand the utility of words and don’t discount it. I have conflicting and paradoxical feelings about whether language or contemplation is the more evolved defining feature of human beings (at least, for me). Of course, the two are not at odds, and merely represent left- and right-brain aspects of who we are and how we work. And as with many things, there is a real beauty when pieces of a whole complement each other, and interact in balance and in harmony. As an example, though Raphael claims to have difficulties in expressing himself in English (his third language), there is a truth and eloquence in his use of words in describing his works (in this case, a set of abstract monoprints on fine Japanese tissue):

Those prints express my profound belief in prayer and solitude and meditation; my mind [is] empty and tranquil and my thought are all beyond expression of words.

And additionally, on his artistic process:

Printing and printmaking is an art form in itself and I try to get the maximum from color; my compositions they never suggest anything but abstraction, serenity, solitude, prayer; important elements in my daily life.

His words are certainly closer to art and beauty than mine. But I know that he understands the intent and the effort in my words, about art as well as about words themselves. He exonerates me, thus:

I admire your intellectual honesty and I do understand very well how difficult it is to write something meaningful and truthful especially about art.

My response to that is simply to say, “thank you”.

* This is to acknowledge that by “he” I mean the gender-neutral person. There is much discussion about the lack of an appropriate and elegant handling of this in English. I’m not going to attempt to solve that problem here. I know some people will not like my primary use of the masculine as a stand-in, but that is what’s easiest and most natural (least affected) for me. I mean no harm or disrespect. Others will handle this differently, many to a wider level of acceptance, I would think.  Note (and please believe) that I work at having to resort to this fallback as little as possible—an imposition to free expression I wish didn’t exist in English.  I consider this a serious topic, which I many discuss at greater length in a future post.