It’s often been brought to my attention that my paintings rarely include people, that is, the figurative rendering of human beings. I guess in a way that’s true, but it has never been a conscious exclusion. As a matter of fact, I’m pretty sure that my urban landscapes, especially the Bungalow Series, are actually portraits of the people I imagine to be living inside the buildings. And all the automobiles that inhabit my cityscapes? I expect that they represent the drivers and not the car. In other words, I suspect that I use vehicles, literally, as representational vehicles. For some reason…. no matter….
But, all this appears to be changing, for my studio is now filling with a new batch of work that feature people, specifically, people playing cribbage. Why cribbage? Well, I grew up with the game. My dad played with his friends regularly, culminating in an annual autumn pilgrimage to the self-proclaimed “Cribbage Hall of Fame” in Washington, Maine (my Uncle Ernie’s camp). There commenced a non-stop four-handed game, fortified by lobster, Scotch, Brandy Alexanders and other performance enhancing provisions. So, as my brother, sister and I learned to count to fifteen, we were naturally taught the game and have played it ever since.
But, that’s not wholly the reason I’m painting cribbage players now. No, the idea first presented itself to me in a supermarket coffee shop. Waiting for my brew one afternoon I glanced toward the seating area and spied a pair of gentlemen in the midst of a game while enjoying their coffee. I immediately saw in my mind’s eye Paul Cezanne’s “The Card Players” and, as is my habit, surreptitiously shot a few pictures with my iPhone and thought nothing more of it. A few weeks later I was going through my image library and was instantly drawn to the coffeeshop shots as the germ of a possible painting. I hit my art books and pulled out Cezanne’s work for additional reference, and a series of work was underway. It all felt very natural and close to the usual process I follow in the studio.
But then the pandemic hit and as so many of us have been forced to do, I began thinking differently. And not only about when to wash my hands or whether I have enough toilet paper or what store is open. I began thinking differently about my painting and the stories they tell. It happened one evening in my studio after I had completed 4 or 5 additional Cribbage paintings. I was at the easel, and off to the side sat the first, original cribbage piece leaning against the wall, minding its own business. But something looked wrong and kept distracting me. I couldn’t figure out what it was at first, but eventually it came to me. The players weren’t wearing masks. And, If they were, wouldn’t THAT change the plot of the story?
As life feels rather desperate and unsettled, it’s easy to forget that we are presented with wonder, joy and beauty each and every day. I’m not talking about sunflowers, puppies and happy little trees either. I’m talking about the simple everyday interaction of human beings. I’m talking about meeting your friend at a coffee shop and playing a game of cards. Or a walk with your mom, an afternoon on the deck with your kids, reminiscing holidays past. I think it comes down to a tribal need to gather in groups small and large to share life as it happens. There’s a spirit present there that cannot be replicated with technology (yet) and perhaps never will. The Zoom of the future will try to go there, but I doubt it will fully succeed. Technology always sacrifices soulfulness in deference to convenience, speed and cost, unfortunately.
So, these new Cribbage Series paintings have taken a whole different meaning to me now - a silver lining in strange times. A reminder that we shouldn’t take for granted our need to be present in the company of other human beings. It is as life sustaining as air, water, food, coffee and shelter. That’s why live music sounds better than any recording, a church service feels richer in a sanctuary than on a monitor and a painting of card players connects so intimately with our humanity.
Pax Vobiscum.
