I apologize for dropping another post so soon, but in my haste to publish, I completely forgot to let you all know of my annual Holiday Small Works Sale. Check it out the selection at my website and give me a shout if you’re interested. Once again, I thank you for the support and love!
Peace this Holiday Season!
“There is nothing permanent except change.” Isn’t that the old saying? Or is it “The more things change, the more they stay the same?” Whatever. We’ve certainly got a boatload of change on the horizon on a national, global and, some would say, universal, level.
Again, I say, Whatever. Not out of apathy or despair, mind you. I say “Whatever” in the spirit of the old bumper sticker from my youth - Think globally, act locally. Getting bombarded with the deluge of poorly curated “news” to my mind, does nothing more than cause anxiety and despair, and there are many better ways to facilitate change each and every day by paying attention to your own backyard. Steadfastly, humbly and with purpose. Do the things that you can directly impact - vote in local elections, or better yet, run for local office or volunteer somewhere that is meaningful to you. Give blood. Recycle (but wash them first, you lazy slob!) Watch a local school play. Hell, just make sure you know and engage with your neighbors. Be a good citizen. I like to think people will take notice and follow your example.
I am encouraged in this thinking by the positive changes that have happened in my life over the past few months. My world has personally and artistically changed dramatically and the support and friendliness shown to me has given me a shot of positivity. I have moved to a new place after living and painting within 20 miles of where I was born for my entire life. Starting from scratch in a new art community at the age of 67 is daunting to say the least (especially to a Greater Bostonian moving to (shudder) New York)! But, to my surprise and delight, everyone I’ve met has been nothing but welcoming, helpful and uplifting. I’m anxious to get more involved.
As the inimitable Dolly Parton says, “If you don’t like the road you’re walking, start paving another one.”
Esopus Valley Scene - 2024 - oil on canvas - 9” x 12” - $400
Moving to new part of the country is inspiring, especially to a landscape painter. Despite the fact that I’ve become primarily a Studio painter, the new surroundings were too tempting to ignore. The painting above is a small piece that has prompted me to look forward to spring and a further exploration of the Esopus valley to once again work in the sunlight and fresh air.
Kerid - 2024 - oil on cradled wood panel - 24” x 36” - $2500
After eight months of working on my Iceland series, the painting above marks the end of that particular road. It is a volcanic crater called “Kerid” on the outskirts of Reykjavik and it was unlike any landscape I’d ever experienced. Visiting in March, it was icily sculpted and barren, but the geometry of the dormant caldera was beautiful. I hope to one day return in warmer months - the photos I’ve seen of it with the mosses and low scrub flora in bloom are magical.
Visiting Manhattan for the first time in almost ten years, and with plenty of time on my hands, I decided to resist the temptation of the Chelsea galleries and the new Whitney Museum to stop by the Museum of Modern Art. MoMA used to be on the top of my go-see list in years past and I was anxious to reacquaint myself with its collection. It did not disappoint, especially since it was mid-week and not very crowded. Spending a good part of four hours there brought back many memories and enabled me to take my time with some of my pals.
Like Matisse’s “Dance (I)” - still majestic in its simplicity and full of life. It can fool you into thinking it childlike and crude, but that’s why it speaks to us. Pure joy of movement.
And Picasso’s revolutionary and primitive masterpiece, “Les Demoiselles D’Avignon” - a painting still powerful and shockingly confrontational. I recall vividly the first time I came upon it when a young art student. I knew of it - or thought I did - from the art books in the school library, but nothing prepared me for seeing it in person, larger than life.
Speaking of Pablo, I found myself missing the epic presence of Guernica, returned to Spain once it became a republic again following Franco’s death in 1981. That painting, approached from around a corner in the gallery, literally brought me to my knees. Viewing it in 1975 as a fledgling artist, was a huge influence into my decision to move from more commercial art dreams to the fine arts. I hope one day to see it again in its more appropriate home in Madrid.
Guernica, 1937 - Pablo Picasso
Thinking of Guernica also brings to mind the brilliant reinterpretation of the Picasso masterpiece by Faith Ringgold, who we lost just this past April. In 1967, at the height of the American Civil Rights struggle (it was painted between the shootings of Malcolm X and Martin Luther King, Jr.), Ringgold channeled her rage and pain into an amazingly visceral painting called “The American People Series #20: Die.” This piece is now in the collection at MoMA, but alas, was not on view this trip. It would been poetic to see it in Guernica’s place during my visit.
American People Series #20: Die, 1967 - Faith Ringgold
And now for something completely different…
Here’s an example of why it’s good to look up from your phone while wandering the city. On Park Ave., near the corner of 32nd Street, I happened to catch sight of a curious looking clock jutting out over the sidewalk about 12 feet up. Closer inspection revealed a wizard with a wand or some such thing, waving it over the head of another kneeling figure. Just as we approached it, the clock struck on the hour (magical timing on our part) and, as the wand waved, another female figure slowly rose from a cocoon! Now was time to whip out my phone and delve deeper. Apparently, the clock is the work of the artist William Zorach along with the architectural firm of McKim, Mead & White. It was commissioned by the Schwarzenbach silk company and restored in the 1980’s to working condition. You never know what’s right in front of you…beyond your tiny screen.
Farm, 2024 - Randy Swann
After a bit of a hiatus from publishing any new work, I’ve decided to let my latest work out of the bag and have posted them on my website. It is a series of paintings inspired by my pilgrimage to Iceland last March, a trip that marks an important turning point in my life. Above is an example of the work. Click here to check out others in the series. I’m hoping to find a venue to show them soon, so stay tuned.
Pax vobiscum.
The expression “belt and suspenders” came to mind the other day. I was speaking to a young artist who was just starting to work with oil paint and she mentioned that when enrolling in her painting class, it was mandatory to sign a waiver, part of which required her to wear latex gloves while in the studio. Now, I know this is a more common practice nowadays than when I was a pup, and it’s always kind of bugged me. Much of the joy I get in making art is tactile and the thought of separating me from my materials, even a scosh (that’s a technical term), makes me, personally, cringe. In fact, I was taught when buying paint, you should always unscrew the cap and squeeze a dab onto your finger to test the color and the viscosity. I still do that (on the rare occasion that I’m not purchasing my paint online) and have more than once been admonished by a clerk.
But, I get it. We live in a fearful world and are programmed now to take as many precautionary steps regarding our safety as possible. And we all have to make choices that we’re comfortable with - like wearing a helmet when cycling, ear protection when mowing the lawn or goggles when dealing with something particularly nasty and toxic (like hot dog water). It’s just difficult for me to bring that caution into my studio process. That’s just me.
And this sent me down a path thinking about other “mechanical challenges” that artists perhaps should pay MORE attention to than the absorption of heavy metals through our fingertips. Ergonomics, for one thing. Many of my artist colleagues of a certain age are now suffering from joint and muscle issues due to poor posture and working habits. Standing at an easel for long periods of time can come back to bite you, quite literally, in the ass. Sciatica is real, as is neuropathy and bursitis. Many of us who went to Swain should have paid more attention to David Loeffler Smith as he cautioned us to stand straight and develop good habits, unlike himself, who painted leaning forward over a table top.
And don’t get me started on carpal tunnel syndrome.
The point is, there’s certainly a balance to be struck between full body armor and going commando when making your art. If you’re a “belt and suspenders” type of bloke, by all means, go for it, but make up your own mind, don’t have it forced upon you in the name of liability.
Interior of a basket by Jeremy Frey
I had the opportunity this past weekend to take in the Jeremy Frey show at the Portland Museum Art up in Maine. What a treat to the eyes and to the soul. If you are not familiar with Frey, read up on him here. He is a contemporary Passamaquoddy basketmaker who learned his craft from his mother and has brought the art form to new, absolutely stunning levels. From a craft perspective, his work is beyond compare - intricate and consistent in execution. But, as an artist, his color sensibility and palette are transcendent. He literally weaves a palette that is harmonious and mesmerizing.
There is a film in the exhibit of his process - from tree to finished product that would be interesting enough without its conclusion, but the climax of the fabrication process is what struck me. Following all the work in making this beautiful, perfectly formed basket - a process that took months - the final frames of the film are him carefully, reverently placing the basket on a stand and setting it afire. As the timeframe of this immolation goes forth, audible gasps arose from the audience around me, and at the end, a collapsed pile of ash is left smoking.
This puzzled me a little, but probably not as much as others around me in the theater. Those of you who follow my blog know that I stage a springtime ritual of artwork burning. I consider it a cleansing, and maybe a little bit of sacrifice, and it helps me to move forward with my painting in an inexplicable way. BUT, unlike Frey, I toss a failure, a total POS crappy painting, into the pyre - not a showpiece that had been quite literally sweated over successfully for months. I went in search of why he does this, and it turns out he’s not very forthcoming about his reasoning. Some have speculated that it has to do with his cultural heritage in some way, or it’s a political statement. My brother took it as pretentious. I’m not sure. I do know that it didn’t bother me…and I kind of liked that he’s staying mum about it.
Go see the show though. Really, it’s gorgeous.
Basket Top by Jeremy Frey
Firelei Baez: A Drexcyenchronocommons (To win the war you fought it sideways), 2019
I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about how the ways we experience art and how ever-changing it is. This train of thought was initiated during a recent art opening I attended with a friend who was less experienced than I in the visual art world. As anyone who has attended an opening reception knows full well, it is decidedly NOT the time to actually look at the art with any level of focus. It’s a party. A time to mingle with like-minded art junkies, greet the artist, grab some free snacks and perhaps a glass of wine or two. It’s crowded (hopefully) and noisy and fun.
I told my friend that, in my estimation, art was a slowly evolving immersion - a little bit like wine tasting, best taken in small sips over time. Close study will only clog your sensorial pores and is often too intense. I learned this early in my art student years after visiting the Metropolitan Museum of Art in Manhattan. Like an eager puppydog, I attached myself to one of my sage instructors, whom I was sure would lead me down the path of artistic enlightenment to the promised land. Surely he would point out every beautiful painterly moment in every masterpiece we came upon. Imagine my shock when he strolled through the galleries like he was shopping at Target, and, to my eyes, only briefly perusing the work, and only stopping here and there for a couple of minutes.
When pressed, he ‘splained…
There’s simply too much to take in all at once - especially at the Met. It is an abundance of wonder and skill. His strategy, which I employ to this very day, was to head directly to the middle of the room, plant yourself comfortably and make a slow turn to gaze on the work as a whole. If a piece grabs you, piques your interest, or puzzles you, investigate a bit closer and maybe swirl it around in your mouth before spitting it out and moving to the next gallery. To do otherwise and move with the masses from each painting to the next, in every gallery, will only make you drunk and give you a sensory-overload migraine.
And, he added, don’t expect to get it all at once. It may take multiple doses of master work to have all the pieces fall into place. Remember the paintings that speak to you and go back to see them as much as you are able. Only then will they impart their full flavors and depth. In my case, this has been true with much of my favorite artwork. BUT, I always leave room in my palate for newness.
Which leads me to what’s called “immersive art.” I have a little problem with that term, as I consider all art presentation to be immersive, but I get it, it’s about the multi-sensory aspect. With all the new technology available to artists, of course those tools would be hard to resist. Nor should they be. I daresay that the Sistine Chapel ceiling would look great as a multimedia piece, complete with soundtrack (and maybe the aroma of angel farts.)
I digress.
Admittedly, I am late to this party, having been self-quarantined from the contemporary art scene for a time, but over the past year, I’ve experienced a few examples, most recently Firelei Báez at the ICA in Boston. But also James Turrell’s work at Mass MoCA, Yayoi Kusama at SF MoMA and a wonderful piece by an unknown (to me) Icelandic artist in Reykjavik. It’s all so impressive, exciting and complex. But I can’t help but wonder about the inherent, fleeting nature of work like this, and whether it will hold up over time, providing food for thought over and over again, into the future. Or maybe, as a society, we’re beyond the wonder of slowly evolving pleasure.
Heavy, man.
Peace.
Yayoi Kusama: Dreaming of Earth’s Sphericity, I Would Offer My Love (2023)
In March of this year I took a trip to Iceland. My reasons were many, but one of the various motivating factors in venturing to the land of ice and fire was to look to the skies. To see the Aurora Borealis, the Northern Lights. My interest in this natural phenomena was born out of two things. First was a series of vividly colorful dreams I had been experiencing since last summer. At least two nights a week I would awaken in the wee hours of the morning after floating through a sea of undulating colors over an indigo background. I say undulating because they were always pulsatating, rhythmically and relentlessly - like an electronic dance soundtrack, but with no music. It was mesmerizing and felt like a palette trying to communicate with me.
The second experience was a close replica of those color-dreams. They occurred during Acupressure appointments with my friend Sandy. At my first session, as I lay back with my eyes closed, she coached me that Acupressure affected everyone differently and to just relax and go with the energy flow. I don’t know what I expected, but it was not the visual explosion that commenced behind my eyelids at her first touch. I remember that I inadvertently took in a sharp breath, especially as the tones and hues changed with each change in her finger placement and pressure. It was a mirror to my dreams. I remarked to her afterwards that it was like a private light show or Aurora. And the seed was planted.
So, off to Reykjavik I flew. To be clear, this wasn’t totally a “if you build it, he will come” moment. I had always wanted to visit Iceland - for the ecology, the culture, the art and everything I’d read about for years. But, searching for a panoramic version of the dancing lights did add a certain panache to my agenda. Alas, to my chagrin, the arctic weather didn’t cooperate, each night of my otherwise wonderful stay was socked in with deep cloud cover and rain. I would have to settle for what showed up between my ears apparently, and plan for another try in the future.
So, imagine my surprise and delight when, a few days ago, the celestial light show made an historic and extremely rare appearance right in my own backyard! I admit, I was poised for more disappointment, especially as the third period of the Bruins game wound down with the home team in a spiral of defeat, but no, a short walk up my street and at the edge of a fallow field, were the colors of my dreams. They twirled and fluttered above the horizon. They pulsed smoothly in and out of a light cloud cover, and they made me smile.
Just as you cannot predict much in the natural world, the solar flares that initiate the Aurora will not be rushed. The croci will emerge from the garden soil when they are good and ready. The bluebirds will nest when they feel like it. The hummingbirds will return in due time. All we can do is be patient and have faith that all good things will come eventually.
Untitled (United States Marine Hospital), 2019 - Firelei Baez
Last week I ventured with my friend Michael, into Boston to the Institute of Contemporary Art for a day of rediscovery. I hadn’t visited the ICA since the Seaport District popped up seemingly overnight (to me) and enveloped the museum. The last time I had been there, the building sat alone in an ocean of vacant lots. There was no real plan (there rarely is with Michael) and we were excited to see something new and refreshing. We were far from disappointed.
Firelei Baez was a new name to me and after experiencing her vision, I left with a renewed hope for the medium of painting in an art world crammed with immersive and conceptual work. There are certainly elements of those disciplines in her work, for sure, but the storytelling and myth-building of her large, diverse paintings is truly captivating. The body of work, for such a young artist (born in 1981) is equally astounding to me, especially given the size of her paintings. Most are wall-size - 20’ x 12’ or so - and rich with color, iconography and intricate detail.
The show runs through 9/2/24 and I highly recommend checking it out.
Title here, Firelei Baez
Bloodlines, 2015 - Firelei Baez
Speaking of checking out some art, I’d like to give a shout out to my friend Jack Phaneuf, who currently is mounting a show called “finally out!!” at the Flora T. Little Gallery in the Bridgewater Public Library. Jack is a true “jack of all trades” showing mastery in a vast amount of mediums and styles, including plein air oil painting, geometric compositions, shaped canvas’ and even thoughtful, soulful tee-shirt designs. Retired from teaching art at Bridgewater-Raynham High School for 31 years, he is at the center of the local art world and mentor to many emerging art careers. His show runs through the end of May.
Dense Pack on the Plains of Moab, 1983 - Jack Phaneuf
Installation of Jack’s work at the Flora T. Little Gallery, Bridgewater Public Library
Where I grew up, there was, around the corner, a town park (officially named War Memorial Park, much to the dismay of those of those of us who came of age in the late 60’s). It was very close to my parent’s home, so close that you could hear the rush of the Nunketesett River over the dam in early spring if there was enough rain. So close that you could smell its distinctive metallic odor if your bedroom window was open and the wind was just right. So close that it was a de facto backyard to all us kids in the neighborhood. There we played (irony!) war games, held egg fights at Halloween, floated crude rafts and fished for perch and bluegills. We fell in often, returning home covered in mud. We lost countless bobbers in the overhanging tree branches. And, later in our teen years, we snuck off to for a surreptitious toke of skunky weed or nip from a bottle of Ripple. We made out with our girl friends there, in the bushes behind Pulpit Rock. It was a humble little playground that was a big part of my world back then.
During the pandemic, when we all were seeking safe places with few people and something other than a screen to experience, I found myself making the twenty minute drive back to the park, to walk with my wife. Providing the combination of nostalgia, fresh air and gurgling waterways, it was a comfort and a haven of sorts. It was also a peaceful environment of just the right size for my wife to navigate as her disease progressed and her health declined. We spent many afternoons eating a picnic lunch next to the iron-gold waters and strolling amongst the WPA-constructed stonework. Seemingly, the Town Park had re-established itself into my life, just when needed.
I’ve continued frequent visits to this special place quite a bit since my wife passed last May, and though the events of the past few years dampen my childhood memories, I still enjoy the calmness there. The river that runs through the park is particularly swollen right now and its meandering path through the tunnels, canals and over waterfalls is on full display. It twists, snakes, and plummets. It divides, many times over into bypasses and swirling pools, then reconnects on the other side, and rolls onward toward its watershed. Full of life at the moment, in July it will be but a trickle, but it will always be on the move.
Farm, 2024 - 12 x 24, oil on canvas - $800
In response to inquiries about my studio work. I have been painting a lot. Much more than in recent years and with a renewed purpose, spurred on, no doubt, by my trip to Iceland. The piece above is a small preview of the direction I appear to be headed. Much more on the way, but still in process. I hope to mount a showable body of work by the end of the year. We’ll see. In the meantime, thanks for your words of encouragement and support.
Pax vobiscum.
I traveled to Iceland last week, in part, hoping to witness the northern lights, which have been haunting my dreams for some time now. Pulsations of light and bursts of color are regular nocturnal visitors to my brain lately, and since the weather failed to cooperate and reveal the actual Aurora, my subconscious interpretation will have to suffice…at least until the next trip.
No worries. There’s plenty to experience in Iceland, in a variety of ways. I saw some jaw-dropping, starkly beautiful landscape. I ate from a vast menu of seafood, prepared in ways I had never tasted before (this from someone who lives a hop, skip and a jump from the largest fishing fleet on the east coast). I walked the neighborhoods of the kindest, most engaging people on earth - and soaked in geothermally heated public pools with them.
And, I saw art. A lot of it.
Icelandic is a puzzling, complicated language in both written and spoken form (so forgive any spelling stumbles, please.) One tour guide told me that there are 25 words denoting “three.” So the visual language of their art is bound to be just as complex. And there’s much to parse - public and formal, sanctioned and guerrilla, historic and contemporary.
Walking the streets of Reykjavik, especially in the midtown area, one cannot go more than 25 feet without seeing what I’ll place under the heading of “street art".” Some of it is obviously commissioned or sanctioned by the building owner, but much is not. It’s noticeable that the unsanctioned work is respectfully restricted to side alleys or even the rear of buildings (yes, I did my share of climbing over trash containers and bicycle racks) and, in a further sign of respect, no work is defaced or tagged after the fact. I felt like I was strolling through an outdoor gallery, city-wide. Very cool.
Add to this an impressive amount of municipal public art - statuary, murals, mosaics, etc. - work that ranges from very traditional heroic-figure-type memorials to more contemporary, political installations. All against a backdrop of varied, colorful buildings of steel sheeting and painted concrete.
Einar Jónsson - Statue of Ingólfur Arnarson
The Black Cone - a Memorial to Civil Disobedience - Santiago Sierra
One of my quests while visiting Reykjavik was to view paintings by two artists who influenced my work greatly when I was a young art student, Nína Tryggvadóttir and Louisa Mattiasdottir. Both of these women were products of the Art Student League in NYC, studying under Hans Hofmann (who also taught my mentor, David Loeffler Smith). Their work, especially Mattiasdottir’s, was instrumental in my understanding of form and space within a composition.
Alas, there just wasn’t much to find on exhibition at this moment in time. I visited four art museums in Reykjavik and found one piece by Tryggvadottir in a group exhibition. The only Mattiasdottir I could find was hanging in the main lobby of the modern, majestic Harpa Concert complex. I’ll take what I can get, but I would hope that a city that puts such stock in their cultural heritage would consider some permanent collection of these important women artists.
Two Women and a Horse - Louisa Mattiasdottir
Street View, House in Grimsstadaholt - Nína Tryggvadóttir
Upstream, 2023 - oil on cradled wood panel - $800
As you know, I made the decision to close my art-making business in 2022. At the time this was the best decision to be made. I was caregiving my wife at the end of her life and what art I made needed to be focused on my self-care, not a commercial gain. Lately I have been humbled by requests to purchase work from the former Intramural Studio. So, I am opening a page on my website to that end - specifically to offer older pieces for consideration. I’m calling it “Randy’s Attic” and if you’re interested in any work from that time, please feel free to contact me.
Also, to be clear, I am still making paintings. My studio is as vital to me as my CPAP machine is to give me a good night’s sleep. I hope to show again in the future, but, for now my newer work is private and “in development.” Thanks for your understanding.
Peace.
To the Beach, 2023 - 6 x 10, gouache on board
I visit Horseback Beach in Westport, MA quite often. It’s about a 40 minute drive from where I live, but there’s rarely any traffic, there are no bridges to cross and the beach is never crowded (save July 4th), making it a pretty stressless and meditative destination. I’ve been coming here since college - to skip class, swim, nap on a blanket, paint and take long quiet walks. Besides the long stretch of shoreline, there are acres of dunes to explore and trails both sandy and paved.
I was surprised to find out lately that there’s varying stories regarding the origin of the name. Some say it is an anglicized version of the Algonquin word “hassanegk” which means “cellar dwellers” or “house made of stone.” I honestly cannot think why that would pertain to a smooth stretch of beach and dunelands, but it’s a thought, I guess. Another theory is that it was a place where early settlers would graze their farm animals on hot summer days. That too, feels like a stretch. To me, it’s obvious when you look at a map and check out the shape of the peninsula.
Then again, the colonists probably didn’t have Google Earth.
Toward Cherry & Webb, 2022 - 7 x 10, watercolor on board
Horse Chestnuts, 2023 - 9 x 12, oil on cradled wood panel
While in an equine frame of mind, I began to think about the Horse Chestnuts that grew in the stately trees across the street from my boyhood home. Where did that name come from? It didn’t take long to look it up and find that it was because the leaves and fruits of that tree resembled that of Sweet Chestnuts, and were thought to alleviate the panting and coughing in ailing horses.
But, that’s not all - there’s so much more to learn about these inedible nuts apparently. For one thing, their nutmeat has a soap-like property that can be used in gentle cleaning. They are a favorite subject in bonsai, AND they possibly repel spiders. Admirable attributes, all, but their most famous claim to fame (but unbeknownst to me), is that they are used in the British game of Conkers.
Between the abundance of these distinctive shiny globes that landed at my feet every autumn of my youth and the deep English DNA I carry, I am amazed that I had never heard of this popular British pastime until now. Or that my brother and I didn’t think up our own version back on Bryant St. It seems like it was right in our wheelhouse.
From what I’ve read, Conkers were fashioned by threading string through the nuts, creating a sort of bolo and then used to strike an opponent’s conker until one of them broke off the string. Sort of a combination of the early 70’s American toy called Clackers and a Nunchuk. The name may have come from the word Conch (which some say were also used in a similar game in France) or, duh…onomatopoeia…
Anyway, I’ve painted both the beach and the nut without any of this knowledge beforehand, though I’m not sure if I had, it would have made much impact on the artwork. But, then again…
How do you add a little snazzle to a show of dry old master etchings? Throw in a little “high tech” wizardry, that’s how. Finding a display of Etch-a-Sketch tablets alongside the wonderful Rembrandt Etching show at the Worcester Art Museum a couple of weeks ago put a smile on my face. Patrons were welcome to add their own masterpieces to the incredibly diverse exhibition via the dozen or so classic toys laid out in the gallery. Most were crap - silly graffiti and such - but this one stirred me (get it? “stirred” not “shaken”).
Sorry.
Seriously, the show runs through to February 19 and it is well worth the trip. In today’s digital tool enhanced world, it is even more impressive to see what the human hand is capable of creating.
Like many of us, during the pandemic I did my fair share of armchair travel, surfing the net and dreaming of a future where I could travel in person again. One discovery that buried itself in my consciousness was an ancient oakwood in the south of England named Wistman’s Wood. Located in Dartmoor, it is a tiny (8.6 acres) forest that contains some of the oldest flora in the UK. Protected and sheltered by the surrounding topography, the trees are dwarfed and highly contorted, rising up from a bed of moss-covered granite stones. Visually, they are organically stunning - mystical and other-worldly. There’s some evidence that Tolkien used it as the inspiration for Mirkwood in The Hobbit. In fact, many legends and ancient lore associated with this spooky grove date back to the time of the Druids.
And that’s cool…
But it’s not why I began making art inspired by it.
After completing a dozen or so drawings and paintings of Wistman’s Wood - with no other reason than it was simply the thing to do at the moment - I sat down with them around me in my studio and asked them. “WTF?“ I said to them, “I come across all kinds of interesting stuff on the internet every day, but I don’t feel compelled to paint them. Why you? Talk to me!”
Of course, they didn’t answer. They never do (that would be crazy, right?). What they do, what these paintings always do, is simply throw even more questions back in your face. “You tell me,” they’ll say, “You getting tired of painting funky buildings and bridges and such?” “Sick of the same old palette of cool blues and greasy greens?” “Looking for a new adventure?” “I think you’re bored, that’s all.”
Cheeky bastards, these things we make.
And all it amounts to is a lot of blah, blah, blah, diverting your attention away from the simple fact that making art is how you think. How you process. The reason why you make something will come out eventually, in it’s own good time. All of us are wired differently and tuned into a particular piece of the world that speaks to us, and we need to pay attention. If we try to figure out the “why,” we’ll miss out on the joy.
Just do it, indeed.
Deep Into It - 2023, oil on cradled wood panel, 12 x 24
Where Asps Dwell - 2023, watercolor on board, 4.25 x 6
These are two of my favorite apps (appetizers, not applications) - Twice Baked Potato Skins and Brisket Burnt Ends. Both are magically created from scraps formerly thrown away, now repurposed into delicious, stand-alone bites. These came to mind recently (I must’ve been hungry) as I rediscovered a very old painting in my “archives" also known as “the pile of crap in the back corner” of my studio. It was in sad shape, to say the least. Filthy, dented and a little warped, it was even a bit moldy. Not too long ago, I would have captured an image of it for my digital library and either salvaged the framework to re-stretch later, or burned it in my annual spring painting purge.
But not this time, probably because the subject matter is so meaningful to me. This particular landscape was of my brother and sister-in law’s farmhouse in Jeffersonville, VT. It was winter scene (which only accentuated the accumulated grime) and was a special place that my wife and I loved visiting early in our marriage to cross-country ski, explore the countryside and warm ourselves before the Jøtul wood stove in the front parlor.
At any rate, I was inspired attempt a resuscitation. So, I got out some warm water, clean rags and an old toothbrush and gave it a gentle scrubbing. Most of the dirt came off, but it begged for more. So, onto the easel it returned. Touching up the rough spots was pretty straightforward, but then there were areas that needed more than restoration - tones that weren’t the correct temperature, compositional errors, and the like. Soon, the old potato skin started to look more appetizing - maybe not a four-star dish, but certainly a lot tastier.
Where Asps Dwell, 2023 - 4.25” x 6” - watercolor on board
Forest scenes continue to call to me, and with it, further abstraction and gestural play. A far cry from the urban landscapes I’ve been producing over the past 20 years, and that’s okay. I’m enjoying the freedom of a new palette, more organic forms and the unexpected. As with anything in life, making art can become rote and predictable. It is human nature to seek the path of least resistance and do the easy thing. It’s comfortable and stressless. But, it doesn’t lead to new discovery and the spark that is so important in life. So, I’ll keep following this new path and see where it takes me - it could be deeper into the tanglewood, or perhaps I’ll come out on the other side and find a new place to play.
Maybe I’ll get lost. Wouldn’t that be amazing?
Split Trunk, 2023 - 9” x 12” - oil on canvas
I have always been receptive to following the connective threads the universe presents to us all. The trick is to remain open-minded and avoid forcing them into a personal construct. That never, ever works. With the ridiculously powerful tool that is the internet, following the bread crumbs is easier and literally at your fingertips. AND curiouser and curiouser. We are all familiar with the rabbit holes of all rabbit holes, where entire evenings are swallowed up and the information trail goes on forever, beckoning you to worlds unknown. So, here’s where the odd, slightly naughty phrase that titles this post presented to me…
The phrase popped up in a podcast while walking the track at the Y earlier this week and it made me laugh out loud, frightening the lady in the Taylor Swift sweatshirt who was about to pass me. The podcaster in my earpiece was using it to make a point about the lack of critical thinking in today’s society. Specifically that too many things are judged on small bites of information and not considered with any semblance of due diligence or research. In other words, we use the wrong tools. We take the easier route, and (more often than not) end up with distorted information.
The podcast I’m referring to is new to me and I highly recommend it. It’s called The Blindboy podcast and is hosted by an Irish stand-up comic/musician/writer/social commentator. He wears a plastic grocery bag over his head in public and has one of those soft, whispery voices that, coupled with his lovely Cork accent, can put you into a trancelike state if you’re not careful. He’s also neuro-diverse, recently diagnosed with autism, and his utterly singular thought process is mesmerizing. And inspiring. His podcast influenced this post (besides the funny title) in that it weaves together seemingly opposite subjects, observations and culture into extremely thought-provoking stories. I highly suggest you give it a listen - but make sure you listen to an entire episode, or you’ll miss his point.
So, after my workout, still pondering the thought of eating cornflakes with my arse, I returned home and searched for the phrase online (as you do), and ended up on a site explaining English and Irish slang, which is, of course, the most delightfully peculiar phraseology yet invented. I found nothing there about breakfast cereal, but there were so many others to chuckle over. One in particular stood out immediately and that was “tiddly-wink” which stirred fond memories, having often played a game of that name in the triple-decker apartment of my three dear great-aunts, Ida, Ethel and Gertrude, who were British to the core (two of them were born there), and introduced me to strong tea, lemon curd tarts and Devonshire cream, among other things.
Turns out, the Tiddly Winks originated in England and was named for the small pubs that were only licensed to sell beer and cider. AND, the game is still around and being played competitively…AND has it’s own vast vocabulary which includes a scoring play called a “John Lennon Memorial Shot” (a simultaneous boondocks and squop, of course). Who knew?!
Tiddley Winks - 1894 - William Somerville Shanks
It doesn’t stop there. It turns out that one of the most famous paintings by any Scottish artist was a picture of young girls playing, you guessed it, Tiddley Winks. I had never before heard of Mr. Shanks, but viewing his intricate work on the clothing and fabrics in the above painting, I’ll be sure and give him a longer look. And maybe see if I can dig up a Tiddley Winks set somewhere (of course I can - you can even find vintage lard cans online these days). I can start a full contact league.
I am in search of art studio space in the greater New Bedford/Fall River area. I would be interested in either private or shared space and need only about 160-200 sq. feet. Good light would be nice, but not a deal breaker. My primary reason for looking outside my home studio is to join an active, vibrant artistic community. Any thoughts can be directed to me at rannswann@gmail.com
Pax Vobiscum.
A sampling of paintings available at www.randyswann.com
Detail of Virgin & Child with Saint John the Baptist - Sandro Botticelli, 1490
Virgin & Child with Saint John the Baptist - Sandro Botticelli, 1490
Yayoi Kusama installation, SFMoma, 2023
To invent again something that has already been invented.
To adapt into a different form; to give a new style or image to.
“As needed,” I reckon, is key here. It’s a phrase that has been made so very clear to me over the past summer, and, I suspect, will continue to do so for the foreseeable future. Losing your spouse/partner/lover/co-conspirator of fifty years is as strong an “as needed” as you can get. To say that I need to re-establish myself on this earth as something more than just an oxygen-breathing, donut and coffee consuming mammal, is a massive understatement. Most days are a fluctuating dose of emptiness and numbness. Little by little, I search for…I don’t know what I search for, actually. That’s the rub. David Byrne would sing, “I’m on the road to nowhere” about this recovery. Just waiting for a glimmer on the horizon to aim for.
Luckily, I am not alone by any means. You simply cannot do it alone, no matter how independent a person you are. It takes a tribe, community, a congregation, if you will, to enable and support a rebuilding project as complicated and sacred as one’s self. And it takes time. Time that you cannot control. Time that is relentless in it’s methodology. Time that gathers the proper ingredients, determines the recipe, and ultimately gifts to you the new person. That person will be built on the remnants of the damaged one, resourcing the renewable pieces, reinforcing and restoring as needed. (A shitload of the suffix “RE” here, huh? - it’s a theme.)
Notre Dame’s new spire underway, 2022
As I wrote in my last post, my studio life has been approached with trepidation, patience and caution. My time in the studio feels like exercising when you hadn’t been to the gym for a few years. Lots of stumbles, consternation and pissedoffedness. No heavy lifting. Light calisthenics. But, I tried to stay with it, and I’m still showing up.
And, I’m beginning to sense a shift. I’m quicker to approach the easel, exploring with more verve and purpose, and spending longer periods of time in my holy space. It’s good, I think. But, it’s funny, I cannot bring myself to sign anything, even if I’m relatively satisfied with the results. It doesn’t feel right.
So I don’t. And I will wait it out until I’m told that whatever new person is making this stuff is ready to own up to it. I’m hopeful.
Haaken’s Boathouse - Severin “Sig” Haines
There’s been too many losses in my life lately, but I would be remiss not to pay tribute to one of my beloved teachers at Swain School of Design - Sig Haines - who passed away this summer. Sig was an inspiring teacher and wonderful friend who will be missed by everyone who’s life he touched. His landscape paintings of both Southcoast and of his native Norway are precise, quietly compelling and stunning. I was lucky to have been tutored by such a wonderful human. RIP, indeed.
Fit for a King or a Klown - Adirondack Chair handcrafted from Reclaimed Cedar by Ethan Swann
Check out my beautiful, comfortable “deck throne” made and gifted to me by my son, Ethan for my birthday. The coffee rings on the armrests are just getting underway. Thanks, my boy, you’re a prince!
Summer has always been difficult for me, artistically speaking. The light is too bright and intense, over-saturating the color of the landscape most of the day, and then, when it gets interesting in the late afternoon, changes too quickly. The heat and humidity are bothersome. Before I had an indoor studio, I painted mostly plein air, and I had little desire to stand for hours in sticky, bright daylight, battling bugs and keeping the sweat off my hands. It was also too easy to procrastinate in the summer. The lure of floating on an air mattress in Curlew Pond, or taking in a Cape Cod League baseball game was just too tempting. And then there’s the color green. I’ve always struggled with the color green, never quite calibrating what I see with the mixture on my palette. In summertime in my part of the world, green is everywhere and it continues to be my personal Achilles heel.
So here it is, my first summer in fifty years flying solo, raising the difficulty level of the season even higher, and I’m doing a lot of pondering about how to approach it. Too much pondering, some would say. My late mentor, Bob Lelle would tell me to just show up in the studio with no expectations. Just show up. Something will happen. Maybe you’ll paint yourself down a path that will be exciting and thrilling. Or, you’ll waste a lot of paint on a muddy mess. Maybe you’ll take a nap. Maybe you’ll finally vanquish the “green demon.” My west coast art guru, Bob Byrne would tell me to go easy on myself and worry about art later. Take some time to get out in nature and be open to what the world presents to you. My wife, my lovely girl, would tell me to take care of myself.
I’m trying.
On August 4th at 5PM, I’ll be giving a short talk and Q&A at the Howland House in Plymouth as part of Plymouth First Fridays. My subject is supposed to be “Landscape as Metaphor” but we’ll see. Come on by and say hello and check out some of my work.
Christine “Stina” Swann, 2017
I wasn’t going to post any words here about losing my wife last month to Alzheimer’s Disease - it felt too personal for publication - but two things changed my mind. First was the fact that she played THE lead supporting role in my life as an artist, and, like my father (who I wrote about last November after he left us), if I’m going to write about my creative life, she must be acknowledged and honored. Second was my son Ethan’s honest, raw and heartfelt eulogy at her funeral. Both have given me the inspiration to put these words down and pray for catharsis.
Stina and Randy, summer 1973
I met Stina in 1973 at a youth group camping trip in Maine. I was fifteen years old. She was sixteen, a class ahead of me in high school, and from another town. We only saw each other once a week in the beginning (I didn’t have a driver’s license) and our relationship probably shouldn’t have lasted, given the obstacles. But, instead it flourished and very quickly we realized how important we were to each other. We dated through college, got married and started a life together.
Stina Reclining, 1978 - oil on canvas
From the day I met her, Stina was my most ardent supporter and that didn’t change once we got married. She put up with the makeshift studio space I carved out of our already cramped apartments. She listened to me ramble on about art for hours. She sat patiently for drawings and paintings and attended events that I’m sure often puzzled her. And she supported me financially in the early years of our marriage while I stumbled around trying to craft a career path. She never wavered in her belief that we would find a way, together, to build a happy life.
Stina and Randy, circa 1983
In 2002 we built an addition onto our home in Lakeville in order to take in her dad, who was suffering from age-related dementia. We designed the space to be elder-friendly with a walk-in shower, wide doorways, etc. and I always assumed the ground floor of the addition would become his garage. Meeting with the contractor, though, Stina surprised me by designating the space to be my new studio. At the time I was pretty dissatisfied with my day job in the corporate world and wasn’t making much art on the side. She simply looked at me and said, “You need to paint.” I still paint there, twenty-two years later.
Star Quilt, circa 2007
One facet of Stina’s influence on me artistically was her beautiful fabric work. She always pooh-poohed her work and was embarrassed when I referred to her as a fabric artist, insisting that she simply followed directions and patterns, which is bullshit. We all use “templates” of some sort when we set out to create. It’s what we do with the patterns and foundations that make the magic. Stina’s sense of color balance and tone was effortless - I watched her choose fabrics (and yarn, floss, backings, etc.) many times - and she always ended up with compelling combinations.
Randy and Stina, 2022
I’ve said too many goodbyes in the last five years - both my parents and my sister, but this one, obviously, is hard. The grief I’m processing can be overwhelming. It can be sweet and hurtful at the same time, and the concept of a future without my lovely girl often scares me. But, I’m doing what everyone who experiences a traumatic loss does: the best I can. There’s no playbook or outline to follow, despite the Hallmark movies and pop-psychology books. You simply have to be emotionally nimble and do what you can to fill the emptiness that sits in your heart. For now, I have to be content with the comforting quilt of love she wrapped around me and the sacred space she placed me within. I will always love her.
Image courtesy of Ed Nute Photography
While struggling through a tough winter of rain, crazy temperature swings and other challenges, I have managed to produce some new work. Constrained to my more compact “auxiliary” studio space, and self-constrained to the less cooperative medium of watercolor, I have found a long-lost stylistic freedom that is personally very exciting. Good thing too, as it would be much easier to hibernate and watch the Bruins while falling asleep with my corpulent cat, Jockemo.
Yes, I have a cat. One that thankfully thinks he’s a dog and thus spares me from the usual feline characteristics that I grew up despising. He doesn’t fetch, but he likes hockey, so…
And I retooled my website, pulling out the newer watercolors into their own page for better group viewing. Take a look and let me know what you think.
Peace.
Blue Sky, 8 x 10, watercolor on board, 2023
Richard Swann, on his 92 birthday
As some of you know, my dad passed away on October 10. It was an incredibly peaceful transition and I, along with my brother and step-mom, were blessed to be there as he left. Of course, this event has been first and foremost on my mind ever since, and since one of the greatest gifts he passed on to me was his love of the written word, I’d like to honor him with a few of my own.
Most of the bond between my father and myself are strictly personal and will remain so, only to be shared with my family, but on this soapbox, my blog, it is more than appropriate to tell the story of what he meant to me as an artist. Because, very humbly and quietly, as was his style, he passed on to me key ingredients to a life in the arts.
He taught me the importance of curiosity and the search for knowledge. I cannot remember my father without a book nearby. He loved history especially and right until the very end of his life was learning about new places and things. He subscribed to Archaeology Today and read the newspaper (yes, in print!) every day. He traveled extensively over the years and always brought back much more than souvenirs.
He imprinted in me the love of story that every artist holds dear. I have a copy of a paper he wrote in college about Moby Dick. Though he thoroughly absorbed all the literary nuances and symbolism of that great novel, the last paragraph of his paper raved about the adventurous tale that took place on the sea. It was clear that he held that quality - the ability to tell a thrilling tale - above all of Melville’s more esoteric gifts. One of his favorite childhood authors was Richard Halliburton and, in venturing into the countless used bookstores we visited over the years, if there was a copy of “The Royal Road To Romance” or any other large 1920-era Halliburton travelogue, he bought it and often read it to me at bedtime.
Long before I heard the phrase “Keep it simple, stupid,” I was well-versed in the concept. Dick Swann loved the elegance of minimal embellishment. Sometimes it was in deference to taste, sometimes function. In his favorite literature, it was best illustrated by Hemingway and the idea of “one clean sentence.” His most beloved American artist was Andrew Wyeth, who, to him, painted deep emotion into simple settings. Even in humor, his go-to joke was the “shortest poem in the world, entitled “Fleas” which went, simply, “Adam had’m”
One of the running, very mild, disagreements dad and I had over the years (besides the length of my hair) centered around the importance of craftsmanship. He claimed that there could be no great art without great craftsmanship. Hence his disdain of the Abstract Expressionists and reverence of Michelangelo. Yet he loved Michelangelo’s Rondanini Pieta, clearly not the maestro’s most technically executed work (in fact, his last piece, sculpted when he was very old and probably half-blind). It took me awhile, but I came to realize that when dad said “craftsmanship” he really meant “care.” He wanted a piece of art to look as if the artist took care in bringing it to life, not slapped together. Since I came to that realization, I try to keep it mind in my studio.
“Rick Swann” circa 1944, Bridgton, Maine
But, if I’m honest, the most important ingredient my father contributed to my artistic being was the understanding that it was a path he veered away from in order to raise a family. It was known in my family that dad had dreamed of being a writer. He wrote well - witty poems in birthday cards, even recipes, sparked with his wry sense of humor. He even tried, following heart surgery in the early 70’s, to craft an essay about it and have it published, but the effort withered, he recovered and went back to work at the bank. I think I carried a mild sadness with me into art school that my father didn’t fulfill that dream. Not that I think it crippled him in any way. The most common words I heard at his wake were “kind” and “generous” and I know he was completely comfortable in his sacrificing his artistic dreams for his love of family.
I had always suspected this, but it was confirmed last April at the opening of my show at the Flora T. Little Gallery in Bridgewater. It was the last show of mine that my dad attended before mobility issues got the better of him. He pulled me aside and told me, in simple, elegant terms how proud he was of how I had navigated my own path in the art world and figured out a way to balance it with, as he defined it “the real world.” He was happy I kept making art. That was the greatest compliment I’ve ever received.
Memorial table at Dick Swann’s wake, October, 2022
Yes, I’ve expanded my workspace…in a manner of speaking. Due to extenuating circumstances, I had begun to find it difficult to utilize my former studio space to its fullest, so I had to make some changes. In my case, it was an easy fix, especially since my recent work has morphed into both smaller dimensions and a less cumbersome medium, that of watercolor. Which came first - the new direction or the workspace? Doesn’t really matter. The fact is we all adapt and roll with the punches in life, and this was no different. My living space has a solid table right next to a view of the back woods and bird feeders. So here I toil now, comfortable and but a few steps from my bed and coffeemaker. I can stop for a nap…or a caffeine fix. And, when the time is right, my old, more “remote” studio sits right below me, ready to welcome me back.
Because of this move, at least partly, my output has increased and pushed into new territory. Yes, watercolor began as a girlfriend visited on the side surreptitiously, but as these affairs sometimes do, she’s moved right in and, for the moment, stolen my heart. She allows me to lose control, see things differently and express myself in new exciting ways. Oh, I’ll go back to the oils eventually (the smell of turpentine still lingers), but for now, I’ll continue to wade into the water with abandon.
Westport Field, 2022
I’ve just updated my webpage if you want to take a look at the recent work. Still evolving, but there’s been some level of success, I think.
Over the years, I’ve kept a journal of some sort to capture all the ephemera the ADD mind can generate. I mentioned my earlier notebooks in an earlier post. Add to that piles of sketchbooks, napkin drawings, photographs and such and the pile gets higher and higher. So, when my son and his girlfriend gifted me the book shown above, it was right in my wheelhouse. Add to that my connection to the venerable old port of New Bedford, MA and, well…
This is a rabbit hole of a book. 300 rich pages of records, formal and informal, famous and pedestrian, written and drawn. Each spread is fascinating in it’s own right, imparting stories that would have been lost, had a bored sailor not felt compelled to make it real in his own way. Some of the drawings are scientific and some are quite crude, but all are compelling and wonderful. Edited by Huw Lewis-Jones (didn’t he front a band back in the day?), I highly recommend it.
On another note, the most recent Smithsonian magazine featured an article on a new Roman mosaic floor discovered in the Middle East. I’d tell you exactly where, but I “filed” the magazine somewhere unknown to me now, and that doesn’t matter anyway. What really struck me was the contemporary feel to the imagery. Perhaps it is the amazing condition it was in, or the pixelated effect of the small colorful tiles, but I felt like I was looking at stylized illustrations for a modern logo mark. Beautiful!!
