I’m sad I haven’t noticed Lucinda Parker’s work before. There’s a building near our apartment that has two of her paintings in their lobby, which faces the street. I passed by one night recently and they stopped me in my tracks. Her visions are chunky and hard edged, but they fit together and turn in unexpected ways, like I’m seeing them in a dream.
She’s got a visceral style of painting, making lovely rough fields of color that join together in a vaguely cubist way. Similarly, her perspective shifts in unexpected ways. The image draws my eye, but then bends space, pulling me further in. It’s wonderful to experience in the larger works in person.
I can’t believe I haven’t shared Karin Waskiewicz here before, but a search of the archives seems to show just that. I came across her work when I was finishing my BFA, and it’s engrossing and beautiful. At the time I bookmarked and clipped several of her online images, I was struck by her simple, careful, and novel approach. I’m also a sucker for saturated color, and there’s lots to be found.
At the time, she worked mainly by layering dozens of paint layers on panel, building them up as they dried. She then used tools to carve back into the painting’s stratigraphy, creating biomorphic forms and patterns. She’s got some new work at her site that’s more atmospheric and subtle, but the heart of it is the same. Mesmerizing work that rewards long viewings, is what it is. Her Instagram is here.
More from the Mark Doty book: he regularly compares painting—and so art, in general—to poetry, in its evocative, metaphorical syntax and usage and the ways it affects us when we experience it.
In still life, it’s the same: these things had a history, a set of personal meanings; they were someone’s. The paintings seem to refer to this life of ownership, and to suggest something of the feeling attached to things, while withholding any narrative. What could we ever know of this cup or platter, the pearl-handled knife? Their associations are long since dead, though something of the personal seems to glow here still, all its particulars distilled into an aura of intimacy.
Only now is the depth of her insight and discoveries widely known. She never exhibited her abstract work, pretending to the outside world she was working in a conventional way. This NY Times article covers the Guggenheim retrospective currently on display.
We should understand there’s likely lots of innovative and wondrous work out there, being done without acclaim or attention. Had af Klint not been encouraged to keep her brilliance secret, she might be known as the mother of abstract painting.
There’s a lot of speculation about why Banks did this, and what it means. I’m not sure yet that there’s any one meaning to the work, but I’m intrigued by the larger possibilities behind the concept.
If Banksy wanted to “prank” the fine art world, it backfired, in a way, because the likelihood is that it’s worth more money shredded. This includes the possibility of the thing continuing through the frame shredder at some point. It transitioned from 2D art to conceptual art, and there’s plenty of that which doesn’t have a specific and discrete physical form. All this attention has undoubtedly increased its value for the buyer, and brought massive publicity to both Banksy and Sotheby’s. It’s not really tweaking the wealthy fine art community as much as fostering it.
On the other hand, Banksy may know what he’s doing, that all this would result in increased value, which is more cynical and that’s disheartening. It’s interesting as another in a series of “why is a thing worth this much?” works, but I’m not sure that goes very far. If the thing dissolved completely, that’d be a better way of bringing it full concept: what’s the resale value of a painting that no longer exists, sans documentation?
The main value, I think, is that I’ll have to think about this some more.
Time for some more talk about the preponderance of white dudes in the canon. I’ll be (mercifully?) brief. Maybe I should have a segment header for this:
Eh, maybe not. But, via the really great—non-toxic—Twitter account @womensart1, I found the work of Margaret MacDonald, a key influence on the Glasgow School and, I think it could be argued, the Arts & Crafts movement as well. Her Wikipedia page sets her as an influence on Klimt, and it seems plausible his work borrowed ideas she painted around the turn of the 20th century and exhibited in Vienna.
I think she’s another who deserves to be studied and lauded along with Klimt.
It’s a perennial problem, that. Either you want to get a thing underway you’ve been half-dreaming about, or you’re itching to dive in and make . . . something. So why is it so hard to get going?
You have to have a specific idea in order to start, right? Well, no you don’t. However it shakes out for creative fields I’m not familiar with (glassblowing?), it’s very similar in two broadly major ones: painting/drawing and writing. I’ll use painting as an example, because I know that one. Probably it’ll translate, at least somewhat, to other media, but we’ll worry about that later.
You usually begin with a blank, white canvas. It’s clean and pure, almost holy—unless you’re not steeped in the Western European tradition, in which case that symbology starts to fall apart. But it is daunting, and voidlike. The way past this barrier is through it. How do you start? By putting something, anything, other than white on it. You can start by putting a tone on it: red, green, gray, or some wild eye-searing thing, like the orange I used on the detail of the blue-dominant painting up above.
There, you’ve started. One line, a new color, and you should be better able to build on what you have.
The same goes for the blank page. You start putting down the proverbial “I don’t know what to write, this is dumb, I can’t even,” and you have something to bounce off of. As long as you keep going, it isn’t long before you can drop into the flow and dig for something true. It’s in there.
About the Author
Marcus is a maker of things and thoughts. He currently resides in Portland, Oregon.