Whispering the Boho Word...

OK. I promised Valadon, but right now you get Janis Joplin instead. And Grace Slick. I came across this photo online today, and I sank right into it. 

 
I am a resurrected 60s~70s wild child at heart, so I have to pay a little homage to the kind of woman I often wish I could be deep down inside sometimes...raspy, raw, able to belt it out and wear fur hats and stick my jaw out against a background of paisley fabric tainted with the scent of cannabis, whiskey and recent breakup tears. And of course, look at the colours in this photo....it is plain gorgeous nostalgic raspberry, aqua and rust complete with hippie beads, aloof stares and huge hair. I love you ladies, you colour our world.

In the tradition of the bedridden rockstars, more rust and paisley...on the walls of our bedroom....I took this photo of myself while nude, just to reassert my flower child credentials...K hung this purple paisley pashmina above our bed, draped sensually against the rusty orange walls.

Now if only I could play guitar.....instead I'm heading back into my chilly little studio to dig out some orange and purple paint.

The Gift of Paris 2012

Well, I have now been to Paris twice in my life! Once when I was 19, and then not again until this August, 2012, most thanks to my dear brother. The occasion for this voyage was the Kirk Family reunion ~ all 14 of the relatives on my mother's side are spread apart between South Africa, Scotland, Austria, Canada and Italy. My mother has lived in Italy for 41 years now, having left Canada to follow the love of her life when I was the eldest to my brother and sister at age nine. I love my mother with all my heart, and only wish trips to Italy weren't such sporadic and rare gems in my life, but hey, I've been lucky enough. I last saw her when I went to visit her at her rural home near Bassano Romano in 2007!

Mummy and Me, Once Again!

My Italian sister Flavia, 16 years my junior, now lives, works and sings in Paris, and so everyone decided it was the most central and splendid place for us all to convene. The hoard of us stayed in a gorgeous old house in Ballancourt-sur-Essonne, one hour by train south of Paris, and spent a few days exploring what we could of the city of light itself. Many nights drinking and talking through until dawn, laughing our guts out as well as crying, confessing, waxing nostalgic and getting to know one another....it was marvelous and life affirming, celebratory and hopeful. The Kirks are a witty, intelligent and loving bunch, and reconnecting to our shared traits and unique gifts was a solid and grounding epiphany, we all agreed on that. 

Where we stayed at Ballancourt~sur~Essonne

We drank a little...

I spent some precious time in Paris with my sister Coralie...we went to Jardin des Tuileries and the Musee de l'Orangerie....

My sister Coralie and Me

...but my favourite personal experience was our day in Montmartre....we came upon a very special place....12 Rue Cortot, where one of my favourite mysterious artists once lived...the elusive Suzanne Valadon. I will write all about Madame Valadon very soon. She has held the deepest intrigue for me and I often wonder why there has not been a movie made about her life, it could be such a magnificent adventure of a film. Perhaps you are already familiar with this unsung artist and muse who lived, loved and painted wildly among her prestigious and better known male peers during the Impressionist era, but if not, keep an eye out for my next post about my enchanted obsession with this woman and her art. Hers is a spirit I thrive upon and I could barely believe I was standing in the very house where she lived. Sitting in the courtyard, looking up at the studio where she painted, I marveled at the reignition of inspiration and the deja vu of shared passions capable of travelling across time and space from one beating heart to another.

Feeling the Aura of the Historical Courtyard at Musee de Montmartre

The Blue Ribbon and Paris

I haven't written for well over a month....because I now have an excellent and satisfying job across the water in Nanaimo, and I've been adjusting to my new schedule. I am so very lucky, I'm proud of where I work and really enjoy the people there. And above all, I can still come home to our beautiful and peaceful forest home every night....having my year-round bed on this island, set somewhat away from the urban crush, continues to be a dream sustained. So, a long delay in posting more of my art.... but here at last is the finished Blue Ribbon. Lots of personal symbolism here, this is my first self portrait in oils. I drew on inspiration from Balthus, Botero, Leonora Carrington and Edward Hopper....turning through the pages of their art in the evenings between picking up my brush. 

BLUE RIBBON ~Oil on Canvas 12" x 16"

In two days I leave for Paris. I didn't paint my way there, unfortunately. My mother's side of the family is having a reunion in France. It's been five years since I've seen my mother, who lives in Italy. I'll be meeting my South African cousins for the first time! My beloved K isn't coming...I'll miss him so much, but it's my own journey on this trip, and if distance makes the heart grow fonder, mine will almost burst! I'll bring my camera and my drawing pad, and there will be much more art and photos to come when I return. For now, I  am smiling and packing my bags...

Frida Kahlo, Every Suffering Woman's Reminder

In the 90s, while living in Vancouver, I recall a period when Frida Kahlo first became my friend due solely to her emergence as a faddish marketed trend. This article in the Washington Monthly, written in 2002, is one of the most in depth summations of the Frida splash I have come across. Reading it, I was forced to revisit my own fascination and attachment to Frida, and to honestly assess what drew me to her like a bee to honey along with hoards of other women around the world who identified with her near the end of the twentieth century. On a few points I question the writers' predictable theories about the modern sweeping up of Frida into a cult of personality, and the idea that her "rise to fame" was fated to fall away much like bell bottom pants would, that overall "misinterpretation" of her life and art were to the detriment of her longevity in the ranks of her male peers. To me, that is all hyped up hype about hype. What matters is who is left wearing the bell bottoms simply because they like how they feel and look despite the abate of the roaring materialistic crowds. I believe that rebellion and strength, not victimhood, was behind Frida's biographical appeal, that her life as an artist did not compete with or overshadow her art itself, but simply belonged with it....that her story and her art were tightly entwined as one element. And so what. Had nothing but her paintings shown up one day, all in a wooden box stranded on a beach, with no knowledge of her life story, I imagine a widespread search for the mysterious woman behind the curiously surreal and disturbing works would still ensue.

Nevertheless, by 2002, when the colourful and ambitious movie Frida came out, I was further entrenched in my adoration of her. And when I went to the National Portrait Gallery in London in 2005 and viewed in person some of her paintings and rare photos, I pledged a full hypnotic allegiance to her...the bond was cemented.

When 2007 rang in, I found a giant Frida calendar on sale for half price at the Vancouver Art Gallery. I took it home, hung it in my kitchen, and I've never bothered to replace or discard this 2007 edition. I've kept it with me everywhere I have lived since, and adopted Frida as my muse and confidante. From time to time I change the month to reveal a different painting that suits my current mood. The other day I realized I have unwittingly accrued a photographic record of her presence in my various living quarters...she has hung in my kitchen, my bedroom, even my closet, and now she sits watching me in my studio. If she were a stuffed toy I could be called certifiably insane. Thank goodness for her exalted reputation! Even hardcore intellectuals and otherwise level-headed people might forgive me for talking aloud to her when I am by myself. I know I'm not the only one!

What made me then, and still today, so personally interested in Frida?

I think for me it was her facial expressions in her repeated solemn self-portraits.  Never showing her teeth, never revealing her intent, never flinching, she holds in her stoic eyes the strength to endure and thus to triumph, and her rigid upright posture transforms her very apparent lack of mobility into a stiff attitude of courage and pride. She has the aura of a woman to be dealt with, one sure to trounce any competition, to defeat any pain, stare anyone down. I also enjoy her bold straightforward use of colour and folky brush strokes. To me, yes, they are naive and folk-like and not beyond intuitive comprehension, more real than unreal. She lets you know in the most head on way that nothing can shock her, nor should it you.

I never had children of my own, and neither did she. As I see it, she expressed that fated "dead end" as an acceptable phenomenon and her miscarriage as a testament to her feminine endurance, as epic and worthwhile and scarring as childbirth itself, her dead baby ghost a matter-of-fact cohort. In my own lazy moments, I often think of her sitting upright in bed, her easel sitting crossways in front of her. Instead of pitying her, I imagine the indulgent luxury of painting a la Frida, with my duvet wrapped over my knees, and comfy pillows at my back. I do believe that certain childless women turn their nurturing instinct inward in a decadent way, and outward in a creative way. We all give birth no matter what. At least, this is the understanding I invented between she and I. And of course too, she could divulge to me the mystique of her Mexican identity and loyalty, show off to me her proud and flourished costumes, impress upon me her determined impact upon fluctuating political times, She could wail to me about her wild womanizing lover and husband, and confide in me the fact she may have been a bit deplorable at times...all of this and more influenced an entire sisterhood of women like myself to reach out their hands in communion. Her paintings told us this story, true or not, it doesn't matter. They are powerful, emotional works, and that is lasting. Does she speak more to women than men? I've never bothered to check. She speaks to me.

Yes, the capitalist world brought her to everyone's attention as a marketed trend, but she simply stood still through it all and waited for it to pass as it was bound to do.

So, heavy as Frida's life was, I know that if she was just as strange as me, she needed a sense of humor.  Here you have a brief history of my interactive life with that pesky Frida, who I enjoy being strange with:

2008 ~ I Saw You Eat That Donut

2009 ~ You're Not Leaving Dressed Like That

2011 ~ Do You Prefer This Hat or The Monkeys?

Incidentally, I love this elegant photo of Frida:...although she always has a proud and regal air in her pictures, she is softer here and almost, almost smiling:

And one of my favourite paintings, perhaps because it brings the spirit of Frida into my own familiar natural physical surroundings .... The Little Deer (or The Wounded Deer). 

No Frida, nobody can shoot down your art. Don't worry, you are safe and you will endure.

The Blue Ribbon in Progress

Well, I placed the unfinished Turkish Panel aside and I'm keen to get back to it as a I have a solid plan for the border. But today I woke up unusually early for a Sunday, to continue with my small oil painting The Blue Ribbon. It was a really enjoyable day ~ I sat in the window in the natural spring sunlight and used small brushes to slowly begin layering at this painting in a  lazy stream of consciousness. It's a self portrait, and I will not try to explain it yet as it's still got a way to go, although I can tell I will finish it in just a few days. Typical me to fall into my fairy tale world. Oh well, here it is so far, mildly hoping to draw on subtle influences from Leonora Carrington and Edward Hopper. More on those two later. To defend my ambitious habit of clinging to such great mentors for guidance, remember that Oscar Wilde said "We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars".

The Most Symbolic Art Event of This Mayan Year

Does it come as any surprise that "The Scream" by Edvard Munch has sold at record price this year? Will it's reverberation finally shatter the glass that will herald in humankind's coming new age? Oh, Edvard, did you see (or hear) this coming?


                                          

Gauguin, Unspoiled Nature and the Heart of the Vocational Exile

Always curious as to how and why a person painted what they did, this week I turned my attention to 

Paul Gauguin.

I have just finished reading this hard cover edition of In Search of Gauguin by Jean-Luc Coatalem.

At the onset, I found myself mildly frustrated by the author's self-engaged and possessive approach to his subject. His story begins with his own purchase of a highly intriguing auctioned photograph which sparks his imagination and drives him to want to know more about its origins in Gauguin's life. The photo is of a Polynesian woman named Helena Suhas, who was the mother of a young boy named Atiti who was painted by Gauguin upon the child's untimely early death. However, Coatalem neglects to include a replica of this photo of Helena in the book for his readers to visually share in his exclusive experience of owning the picture! It seemed to me a nasty tease ~ even though he describes the photo well, he falls short of the 1000 words that could justify its omission. Surely he would know we'd all want to lay eyes upon this rare picture! The question of the unpublished photo irked me....could it have something to do with the biographer's personal quest for the elusive, for that which cannot be accurately captured or retrieved, or in the case of art, that which cannot truly be owned?

After I got over this initial irk, I found myself bothered by his habit of changing tenses mid-paragraph or at the end of chapters. And then, after I got over that, I started to really enjoy the book, and couldn't blame Coatalem for obsessively entwining his own life's quest with the desire to taste the very aura of Gauguin and retrace his footsteps. Any art nut should at least understand that feeling.

As the book draws you in, this becomes the journey...going after the heart of the vocational exile, the Inca, Gauguin. I recommend that regular folk like me read this book near a computer, so you can google image the titles of the paintings as you go along if you're not able to conjure them up in your head on the spot like a seasoned art historian...the catalog of Gauguin's entire works is enormous and this biography refers to many of them by number and title, offering a scant mid-section of colour plates that only scratches the surface (it is a biography and not an art book after all). For me at least, Coatalem's descriptions sent me running to look up the paintings online.

I enjoyed the book even more once Coatalem began narrating it from his notebooks in Tahiti .....the allure of the exotic, the other-worldly quality of colour and landscape, and the local lore all come to life to offer up or or wash away the missing pieces the author seeks. Even so, he has to strain his eyes and imagination to see past the barrier of modern day buildings and traffic into the moving ghosts and scenes of the blissfully pastoral yet colonial-ravaged past that welcomed Gauguin ashore roughly 100 years earlier.

Eventually it began to make sense to me why Coatalem does not reveal to us the photo of Helen Suhas. Coatalem started out covetously chasing after any remaining relic left behind as evidence of Gauguin's near mythical existence. We know this woman also existed, and yet it's only by chance that we may come across physical remnants or proof of the essence of someone long after they are gone. This is Coatalem's repeated discovery as he wanders down a "multiplication of trails". He eventually questions his own motives as he despairs "Why are the details so pointless, and so compelling? What's the good of these signs, scattered like tiny pebbles, which lead nowhere except to what is already evident?...What haunts us is what has given us our foundation." And so perhaps this is why he allows Helena to haunt his book like a quiet ghost reminding the reader that she is not just reduced to a photo, she is a spirit.
.
And I also came to grasp that Coatalem's habit of switching from the past tense of far removed days into the present tense at opportune moments mid-description was his way of remaining suspended in the eternal present in the place and situation of his choice, just like Gauguin sought to do.

Finally, I gained some insight into Gauguin's often unsavoury but nevertheless passionate and hedonistic character, his longing for fame and his suffering for redemption, his attitude toward his work, and his opinions on technique. And I also took with me some very valuable quotes by the artist to inspire my personal approach to painting. Some will say that reading about the inner lives of well known artists and studying their technique is another form of diversion and distraction for anyone who wants to be productive with their own creative pursuits. But I believe that immersing yourself in the lives of those who have gone before and paved their own path and forged a distinctly elevated style, especially against the odds of material difficulties and social solitude, is helpful in building your own vision and courage, and nurturing your own talent. And if not, it is never time wasted to lose yourself in beauty and play your integral part in art as audience!

I enjoyed this book, it was engulfing and stirring and many-layered, and I enjoyed revisiting so many of Gauguin's paintings.

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Here is one of my very favourite pieces by Gauguin, Tahitian Pastorale (Tate Gallery, London). You see these rich ochres, sultry red-oranges and gentle green shades and you think, he created this magical palette entirely in his head! And yet, Tahiti was this gorgeous, this rich in vivid hues. Artur Gilles, an expert consulted in the book, had this to say: 

"Gauguin did no more than copy, capturing the precise shades of colour. He was able to see."

Wow. What sight he had to pull it like this out of nature!

And another I love....I can sink into this painting, Spirit of the Dead Watching... even though it has a foreboding air, the contrasting colours and luxurious repose of the vahine are both striking and peaceful at the same time.

I wonder, would we be reading about Gauguin at all had he not gone to Tahiti? He was the epitome of an artist flourishing in the precise surroundings that beckoned to him. When he came back to France, the Ministry of Fine Arts sent him packing, telling him his art was too "revolutionary", and he was soundly rejected by his peers, returning finally, distraught and poverty-stricken, to end his tapering days in the South Seas.

And now, Gauguin whispers to you. Listen. And next, may you pick up your paints, newly inspired:

" I want to make only simple, very simple art; for that I need to immerse myself  in unspoiled nature."

"Art is imagination, subjectivity, a language which is able to combine the visible and the invisible."

"Work freely and madly, and above all do not sweat over a painting; great feeling can be conveyed immediately, dream about it and seek out its simplest form."