Beauty

Fairfield Porter (1907–1975), the American painter who successfully produced realist work in the midst of the Abstract Expressionist movement, wrote "When I paint, I think that what would satisfy me is to express what Bonnard said Renoir told him: make everything more beautiful."

When I painted in graduate school at NYU, I agreed with Porter and Renoir and tried to make everything I painted more beautiful, much to the dismay and chagrin of my professors and fellow students. They repeatedly told me that this was a flawed expenditure of my artistic energy. They explained that after I finished a painting, the painting was an autonomous entity, completely separate from me and my opinions–even though I was the one who created it. Even if It seems beautiful to me, there will come a time when the painting is viewed by someone else outside my presence. At that time, "beauty will be in the eye of the beholder."

Beauty is not judged objectively, but subjectively, according to the estimate of the beholder. This idea is a very old one (Theocritus). In addition, the beholder's estimation can be affected by whatever vision he brings to the painting. By this I mean not only his personal vision, arrived at through his life's experiences, but also his actual visual acuity. People see things differently as a result of their literal eyesight as well as the psychological "baggage" they bring to the painting.

Having been won over to this idea (that's what I had to do to get out of NYU alive), I have concluded that we painters should aim for transcendence of the signifier, not its beauty. We must capture and distill the spirit of our subjects in a meaningful and ultimately more truthful manner. Merely enhancing the subject is inadequate. An artist who is searching for beauty simply by reproduction of images is limited because no matter how "accurately" she paints, she can never exactly reproduce the original. The most obvious of many reasons for this is that she is trying to represent a three dimensional subject in a two dimensional format. So, by her own definition, she must always fail.

When a teenage girl, no matter how beautiful, has a pimple on her nose and looks into a mirror, she does not see a beautiful teenage girl. All she sees is a great big pimple. When a handsome, legally blind man looks into a mirror, even if the room is well lit and he knows he is handsome, he might exclaim "Who is that dark and fiendish, film noirish looking man." When a two scooped- ice cream sundae with hot fudge sauce, whipped cream, and a cherry on top looks into the mirror, it sees ........ well, you know the answer to that.

McLAUGHS

"Honey, do we have any defoliant?"

Electric Arthropods

When I'm confronted by anything with a cord, fearing death by entanglement, electrocution or embarrassment, I immediately withdraw into my shell. I have to. It is a matter of self preservation.

As an example of my technical ineptitude, when I try to make a piece of toast, I am toast. The toaster, a simple, useful appliance for most, generally burns my bread to a deep, dark mars black. On those rare occasions when it toasts the slice to the nice ochre color I like, the bread spontaneously pops up, targeting my eyes and blackening them.

No appliance ever works for me. For that matter, nothing mechanical, electrical or technical–big, medium or small–ever works for me. "Just stupid, I guess," is what I used to think about myself because of my chronic inability to use a machine, no matter how carefully I studied the instructions, or how many times I was taught, or how simple an operation it was for anyone else. I observed many people who I did not think were nearly as clever as I operating the very same machines with the greatest of ease. I guess my IQ had nothing to do with it.

That only left one possibility. I did some historical research and eventually discovered the reason for my personal mechanical failure. One dark and dreary night, a long time ago, around 45 BC, all things mechanical, electrical and technical, though still embryonic, clandestinely and illegally convened. They came from all over the world for the sole purpose of conspiring against me, Susan McLaughlin. They voted unanimously to put a curse on me–the Curse of the Low Tech. This pernicious curse was so powerful that it could only be placed upon one person at a time, or else the world would stop.

They chose me, even though I hadn't even been born yet. They issued a dictum and put the static-laden word out to all things mechanical, electrical or technological:

WHEREAS, all machines, appliances and other devices employing technology have organized themselves into the Mechanical, Electrical and Technical Alliance (hereinafter "META"); now, therefore, it is

RESOLVED, that all members of META hereby pledge, agree and confirm, singly and collectively, that they and each of them shall never, under any circumstance, and irrespective of how hard she cries or begs, even if she has a full meltdown, work properly for Susan McLaughlin; and it is further

RESOLVED, that this pledge shall continue in full force and effect for the entire duration of the life of the said Susan McLaughlin, and shall be binding upon her and her successors, heirs and assigns.

You can understand my distress at having a big organization like META against me. I have a suspiciously high rate of non–deliverable emails and Facebook messages. My Dyson vacuum cleaner is as likely to blow dirt as to suck it in. But that is probably a good thing, because if it did, it would probably suck me in to its dusty bowels, never to be seen again. Recently, I have seen many electrical wires quietly slithering up behind and around me, maliciously edging closer and closer in the guise of delivering power to my computer or clock radio. I find their behavior shocking and, indeed, have been shocked repeatedly, almost to the point of electrocution, by these malicious electrical snakes.

The final indignity, though, is this: the only way I can write this blog is to sign in under an alias, so blogger.com, which I happen to know for certain is in cahoots with my computer (both are members in good standing of META), doesn't know it is I, Susan McLaughlin, composing this post. As you can see, META has continually harassed me, wreaking havoc on my low–tech mentality and kept me in a state of sheer and utter technological ineptitude. But I am sure you understand that it is not my fault, it is theirs - those slimy, ugly, conspiring, bullying electric arthropods. This is why I am going to have to hire a circuit breaker guy to unplug and dismember, circuit by slimy circuit, each and every one of them.

By the way, (our little secret, OK?) the above post was not written by me. It was written by that internationally–known blogger Nasus NilhguaLcM.

Gagged

One of my criteria for deciding whether a work is art or not is as follows: If you think about it after you see it, whether it be a play, movie, painting, concert, or book, it is art. If you don't think about it after you see it, even if you enjoyed it for the moment, it is not art.

Recently I saw an extremely heavy late night movie on TV. Its content was disturbing - murder, annihilation and oppression, and it was set in turbulent times. That made it difficult to watch, but I liked the lead characters (two innocent little boys), the lighting, photography, scenery, dialogue and the screen play, so I stayed with it. The story of the forbidden friendship of the boys and the haunting results of their friendship moved me. I couldn't forget about it after I saw it. I thought about it the entire next day as I went about my painting.

At dinner that night with a friend, I tried to start a conversation about the little boys and the artistry of the movie itself. I was told not to talk about the movie and that, though it was a work of fiction, it was offensive. I explained that the part I wanted to discuss was about the boys' relationship which was wholesome and uplifting and showed a light in all that darkness. No matter, the gag order was still on. I was compliant but my friend made me feel totally oppressed which, ironically, was the part of the movie that so offended him.

If he came upon me working on a painting containing subject matter he didn't like, I wonder, would he break my paint brushes?

Grey Ladies

I have known two grey ladies in my lifetime: my cat, Mrs. Grey, and The New York Times.

Though Mrs. Grey was actually black and white, her colors optically blended to grey.

Before the New York Times added color, she was also called the Grey Lady . She, too, was not really grey, but black and white. New Yorkers affectionately called her the Grey Lady because of the lack of color and sparing use of pictures. The black type and white ground made a beautiful shade of grey. Her message never did though. Black and white told the truth. Black and white is newspaper and has always been the carrier of information journalistically, providing an immediate and reliable source of information.

Artistically, black and white, at least historically rather than implicitly, is more "truthful" than color. Consider and contrast Picasso's choice of black and white for Guernica to depict the true and horrible journalistically derived information with Warhol's use of color for Marilyn to produce his intentionally artificial and "untrue" Marilyn.

The capriciousness of color: Would anyone have any faith in an attorney or businessman in an orange suit, a nun in a multicolored, floral habit, a minister, priest or rabbi in striped yellow and cerulean robes? Is a multi-patterned, brightly-colored, red-cheeked clown taken seriously?

The straightforwardness of black and white: When people are born, christened, confirmed, graduate, married and die, black or white is traditionally worn. That is because black and white drives home the truth of the event.

I miss the Grey Lady newspaper. Perhaps, though, I should be happy that she is still around even in her colored state now that the era of the newspaper is passing. I will miss her even more when she is gone entirely as a physical presence and I have to read the news on my computer.

I miss the grey lady cat too. She always made a bed for herself in discarded newspapers. Grey on grey -- a delightful color block composition. Besides reading and bedding, newspapers are extremely useful and can be repurposed for wrapping fish, insulation, papier mache and fire-starting. Wilhem de Kooning used newspapers to cover his canvases when he finished for the day to keep the paint on them wet and workable. On some of them, the newsprint transferred to the canvas and he left it there. Imparting some of the Grey Lady onto canvas enhanced his multi-colored ladies.

Outside we're worms. In here we're organisms.

Before I became a painter, I was an interior designer for years because I know that your environment can make you feel better about yourself!

Three Proofs

When Harrison Brandell was age two his universal reply to any question was, "I not." Before that he was giggly, cooperative and agreeable. He was enjoying his "terrible twos" and he was so cute that he could get away with it -- for a while. His mother understood that he was in the stage when babies realize they are separate entities from their mothers and are "trying out" their new autonomy. When he broke his mother's best flower vase and replied to her accusal,

"I not,"

his mother decided it was time for a lesson.

She told him he couldn't just go around saying, "I not" all the time. It was o.k. to disagree with people, but that he should have and give a reason for it. She gave him an example. Question: "Would you like to have a peanut butter and jelly sandwich?" Suggested Answer:

"I not, because I not hungry."

Right after the lesson, he returned to his mantra, "I not." Mother reminded him of the lesson and re-asked her question:" Would you like to watch Sponge Bob?" He replied, "I not." Suddenly, apparently remembering the lesson, squinting his eyes, looking off into the distance and, indeed, reasoning, he said in a calm and statesmanlike manner,

"I not, because I not. "

That is pretty good thinking for a two year old, right up there with the philosophical proof of Descartes,

"I think, therefore I am." (Cogito Ergo Sum)

And my artistic rewrite of the above,

"I paint, therefore I am." (Depingo Ergo Sum)

Monkey on the Roof

One day Richard, the monkey, sprung himself from his cage, stationed himself on the roof just above our porch door and dive bombed everyone as they tried to enter or exit. We were prisoners in our own house. I imagined Richard eating a banana up there and chuckling evilley to himself, "Let's see how they like being caged." Patsy, the only family member who Richard loved and who could reason with Richard was away at a movie. Having had quite enough monkeyshines, mother called the movie theater and told the ticket taker that there was an emergency: she should stop the movie, locate Patsy McLaughlin, and tell her to come home right away. The ticket taker said that that would be highly unusual and asked if she might know the nature of the emergency. My mother replied, "The monkey's on the roof and he won't let anyone in or out of the house." The ticket taker replied, "Sure, and I'm the Queen of England" and hung up.

Monkeys, God, Father Divine and Tommy McLaughlin

 Painting Manita

MY GRANDFATHER, PAPA, called all his grandchildren "Monkeyshines." It was an omen.

Many families had cocker spaniels (although probably not as many as 10 at a time) cats, canaries, hamsters and pollywogs, but rarely would you find a family with a pet monkey unless it were the McLaughlins. His name was Richard.

Monkey on her back: One day my brother, Tommy, heard these perfectly dreadful screams coming from the laundry room. Like this: "Taaameee, the monkey's loose ... he's coming for me ... he's on my back ... biting my neck, ... Taaaameeee ... ... Have mercy on me! ... God in Heaven, ... Father Divine ... Taaawmeee ... Help me ... and so forth and so on! If you heard this, you would probably wonder what was going on. But not me. It was Faith, our housekeeper, stumbling up the stairs, fighting for her life, and, yes, with a monkey (that would be Richard) on her back. She was desperately asking anyone to help her -- God, Father Divine, or Tommy McLaughlin. She didn't care who -- any one of them would do. Although Tommy liked the potency of the company in which he had been placed in this possibly last supplication of Faith, he calmly walked past the laundry stair door, quietly closed it and moved on. When I asked him how could he possibly have not helped Faith, he told me at the time he was thinking, "God, or Father Divine, this one's yours. I have to go make a tuna fish sandwich for my sister." Right, it's always the sister's fault!

Monkeys don't swim: Richard, the monkey, didn't like family members any better than household staff. He was an equal opportunity molester. At our lake house, my brother told all his buddies, "Of course, monkeys don't swim," you can taunt him as much as you want and when he gets smart enough to figure out the locks on his cage (which was frequently) and gets out and is mad enough to chase us, all we have to do is jump in the lake. because, "Monkeys don't swim." It was quite odd to see a bunch of teenage boys swimming as fast as they could across the lake with a furious monkey swimming after them. The boys were screaming, "You told us monkeys don't swim." I am sure Richard was just misunderstood and I applaud him in his aquatic apprehension of marauding teenage boys. Au contraire, Tommy McLaughlin, monkeys do swim.

Paint on,

Depingo

To see more Depingo family portraits and read  family life posts click  the links below:

Circle of Hell

Bipolar Mood Disorder

My diagnosis is bipolar mood disorder.

No, I Had Not Gone "Mental"

I had the occasion to draw patients in the day room of a psychiatric ward. No, I had not gone "mental." I was waiting for an appointment with a doctor there because I had sudden onset asthma. Since there was no physical cause for it, and thinking it was stress related, my GP wanted me to consult a psychologist there. The waiting room was directly across from the day room with a full view of it.

Instead of getting depressed by this view of worse-for-the wear patients, I was elated by their poignant beauty and expressive form. I started drawing them in my journal. They loved their portraits and I loved drawing them. They were perfect models because they were for the most part either slow moving or stationary. I actually think the drawings made them feel better ephemerally and I'm so happy that I could help them a little.

A nurse made me stop drawing them. She said that no cameras were allowed and I was too accurate in depicting them. I told her I thought that was a good thing and she said that I would probably get sued.

Her name was Ratchett.

Loose Ends

When I was an illustrator, I wrote and illustrated a cartoon strip called "Attorneyman - World's Sharpest Attorney." This drawing shows Attorneyman about to be "tied up" by Lou Sends a/k/a Loose Ends. Being very compulsive (but not as compulsive as Seymour Chwast), I rarely leave loose ends. However, the loose end here is that I do in fact leave loose ends -- even in my paintings. I say to myself (as did Loose Ends to Attorneyman), "You'll take care of it in the morning." Then in the morning I start on another painting because a paint rough is more exciting than finishing touches. Sometimes I never go back to the previous painting. A few months down the road I'll take a guilty look at the unfinished painting, declare it finished, and it looks just fine.

More loose ends: My father was a pianist in addition to being a surgeon. He had a very strange affectation to his playing though. The music he played had no beginning and no end. He just sat down and started playing in the middle of a piece, played for a while, stopped before it ended and then got up and left the piano. We called his pieces "Harrison's unfinished melodies." They had loose ends; were unpredictable, mysterious and sounded just fine.

Loose ends help create more art, mysterious music, and are not so bad at all.

Letter to my Canvas