Quixotic

An interview with the Belgian artist Pierre Bergian

"I am persuaded that we are unconsciously very fascinated by interiors of buildings because these are the places in which we spend the largest part of our lives."

—Pierre Bergian

In the studio of artist Pierre Bergian of Ghent, Belgium. Contact the following galleries to reach Pierre: Purdy Hicks, London; Octavia Art Gallery, New Orleans; Gerald Bland, New York, and Emily Eerdmans of Eerdmans Gallery, New York.

"Pierre Bergian: Portraits of Rooms" opens at Eerdmans gallery, New York, April 6 — May 28, 2021.

 

Pierre and I "met" on Instagram. For all the trappings and annoyances delivered by social media, I am grateful for the friends I may otherwise never have met, very grateful indeed. Pierre was born in Bruges, 1965, and studied art history and archeology at the University of Ghent, though he has always been interested in architecture. His work is part of the permanent collection of The British Museum. His solo exhibits include: Purdy Hicks Gallery, London; Octavia Art Gallery, New Orleans; Gallerie Laurent de Puybaudet, Paris; Gerald Bland, New York; Gallerie Josine Bokhoven, Amsterdam. His work draws the praise of design-world-A-listers like Charlotte Moss, and Alex Papachristidis. 

1. Tell me something about the upcoming exhibition, Pierre, at Eerdmans, New York, before we delve into your life.

These are historical portraits, mostly of fashion designers' and decorators' homes. I love modern design, but the rich interiors of all these names, are so imaginative. What a world to discover! Lots of modern design is annoying compared to the world of Channel, Duquette, Castaing, Fowler, Letan, Lagerfeld, YSL, Baldwin, Elsie de Wolfe, Albert Hadley, Sister Parish... working with their interiors to develop my drawings and paintings, is so inspiring. I discover a quite unusual world. Of course these works are different from my empty interiors ... While painting them I feel more like a pianist playing Chopin or Liszt, playing the compositions of someone else. But it is very interesting for me and opens my mind and style!

2. How did the metaphysical sense of an empty room become the subject of your art and how has your childhood influenced your art?

When I was a child, I loved to discover old, abandoned houses in Bruges, Lille, and Ghent. They were mostly empty and rather dark, without artificial light. I was drawn to them. Similarly, I am very fond of the Italian metaphysical paintings of the twentieth century, particularly the way in which walls, windows, floors, and furniture communicate with natural light. Being intetersed in light is not exceptional for a painter. I must specify, though, that I never paint artificial light. I love some sunshine coming in a room, with a lot of shadow. I also like the light of the winter sun, entering very deeply, and moonlight, especially in old houses, when it reflects on the walls, floors, and ceilings. Light in a building can be so delicate.

Also when I was a child, my family and I visited museums, artists' studios, and collectors' interiors. I was, and still am, captivated by rooms filled with an artistic mess, with paintings piled up against the wall. However, emptiness holds me, too. I don't know why, but I prefer interiors or landscapes without people. In this way, my paintings are a little similar to still life. While there are no people, the spaces are not really empty, but are more or less abandoned, giving them a slightly surrealistic touch. My paintings are meant to be poetic.; I am not interested in any conceptual meaning, but am intrigued by the interiors of buildings because these are the places in which we spend the largest part of our lives.   

I have an interest in the Italian Giorgio de Chirico, master of stillness, and his explanation of the metaphysical element in his paintings. My work is more northern, nearer to Hammershoi, and my Belgian predecessor Magritte, with similar references to "possibility."  

3. What is your process when composing a painting?

Before I begin painting, I often make sketches of interiors. Some of these are quite "realistic," while others are more or less compilations of what I've seen, perhaps impressions of reality. While painting or sketching, I imagine walking through spaces, opening windows, doors, and passages, and then closing others so as to create another perspective, light, or atmosphere. Sometimes this can be seen on the paintings, where underlying layers of paint, or even interiors, might be visible. I use fragments of older paintings in new rooms, often as a mirror, and this makes the work more like an archeological object that contains layers of different periods. Thus, my paintings are in some way a meeting of history, archeology, and architecture.

"Bergian's goal of creating atmosphere instead of a mirror image of reality makes him a visual poet of the interior." 

—Frances Borzello

4. Which influences and artists have significantly impacted your work? 

As a collector I meet so many different people, everywhere, I know tile/ ceramic collectors from NY and London to Amsterdam. So I do travel quite a lot and meet lots of people with amazing collections and houses. For we collectors, doors open quite easily. During one of my travels I was in the marvelous city of Milan, where I walked into a small gallery where I discovered the fascinating work of William Congdon!! (* the late American Abstract Expressionist painter William Congdon is a relative of mine)

There is still something interesting to know about Belgium. The country as you know is in the middle of Europe. As we speak Dutch and French we feel as at home in the northern and the southern reaches of Europe.That places the Belgian in a comfortable and special relationship. We easily travel from Paris to Amsterdam and have friends everywhere. The tiles that I discovered in Holland, along with but not limited to the ceramics of Delft, and the famous Dutch painters of the seventeenth century, have inspired my interiors!



My continued discoveries in London's museums influence my art. I love the UK! Not only because of my amiable working relationship with my gallery there, Purdy Hicks, but also because of the wealth of British art. I love the 19th and 20th century. A great many painters from England, Scotland, and Wales are unknown on the Continent and forgotten in lots of art books. London was where I first saw paintings of the Danish Vilhelm Hammershoi. I discovered him quite late, and recognize in his work a similar fascination for emptiness and natural light and darkness. There are so many artists of the 19th and the 20th century that would be rediscovered, both men and women! Art historian Frances Borzello has written on this topic, and also, the women who have painted in an unusual and delicate style, then were neglected by history.  

I admire the work of the 17th century Delft artist de Hooch, with layers of color, suggestive strokes, as a parallel to the emotion of history. 

Also that of the German romantic, Casper David Friedrich, whose window landscapes are a metaphor for the spiritual realm which lies beyond the room.

5. I remember when we first spoke, you were about to break onto the New Orleans art scene, June 2020, and now again, in New York, what has been your experience, and how does the culture of art and its reception differ between the two spheres?

I am comfortable in the Anglo Saxon world. I find an inherent familiarity with the artists and collectors both in the UK and the US who love my work. It must excite their imagination. The architecture of these parts of the world inspire me so much! I love the Anglo-American neoclassicism. In the coming years I will definitely travel more in your part of the world!

"I try to sniff out the mysterious atmosphere of all the places and images. A result you can entirely get through photography. I prefer to work with a brush and paint.The process is slow, but you give the image more time to penetrate the mind."

—Pierre Bergian

6. What are your favorites in literature and music?

I read a lot, but I am not a connoisseur of literature... I do read a lot of nonfiction on art, architecture, archeology... I love to listen to music, from Jazz to classic, but I don't remember all the names. But I work well with and am inspired by 19th century music, from Schubert to Rossini, like everyone. I love also the 20th century specifically Britten and Walton for the British composers, and Samuel Berber, Copland, and Glass for the United States. They bring me into empty spaces and their sound is so mysterious, which is an important element of art for me, as art is emotional! I am not a fan of rational and conceptual art.

An interview with artist, photographer, and director, Florence Montmare, New York City

Florence at home in nature.

Florence Montmare and I met as two artists on Instagram where I was impressed with her eye on the world. You can find her on Instagram @florencemontmare and contact Florence at info@florencemontmare.com


Scenes from an Island, Fårö, Sweden, 2015

"Florence Montmare's photos spark the imagination, documenting what is there and suggesting what is not. Her work is both provocative and evocative.
She is a master photographer." —Julia Cameron, author, The Artists Way

I enjoyed studying your impressive website and learning of your accomplishments, exhibiting since 2000. To what do you attribute your success and drive?

Thank you! I think mentorship is very important for an artist, and even though I had little support from my school International Center of Photography, my gallerist Ivy Brown, Sam Samore, and Deborah Turbeville acted as mentors. 


AirPlay, Cleveland, Ohio, 2015

You were born in Vienna, your father was Greek, your mother Swedish, what was your childhood like, and what influences do you recognize from both cultures, favorable and unfavorable, if so? Who were you as a child?

In my youth, we had a lot of different cultural influences, and my mother celebrated that. There were some cultural differences especially being a woman—the Greek and the Swedish. I guess that is a much longer conversation... As a child, I was imaginative and paid attention to friendships. I liked to sit by myself and do things with my hands for hours. I drew a lot of portraits of women and horses, and I painted in oil with my grandma. I liked math, played the piano and danced. I was a bit of a perfectionist, using the eraser until the paper would crumble into pieces. Change was important to me, and I used to rearrange my 12 square meter room every other week, trying to explore the feeling of the new space I had created. It drove my mom nuts. 


Villa Kassman Interior, Sweden, 2017

I see your work crossing many disciplines, photography, theater, choreography, and film; you note having had dance and piano lessons in your youth, what else influenced your ease with combining the arts?

Yes. Thanks for recognizing that. I think we were encouraged to try everything: music, dance, painting, drawing. Everyone had to play an instrument and do something physical. Dancing was very important to me growing up and well into my 20s. I watched a lot of Ingmar Bergman and different historical dramas, the ballet, the runway shows, the yearly Vienna New Year concerto on TV, with its beautiful dancers and costumes. 


Snow, 2003, 2005







Who are your art gods?

Deborah Turbeville, Ingmar Bergman, Bunuel, Tarkovsky, Picasso, Matisse, Vivaldi.



Blue Dress, Untermeyer Garden, 2018


Dreamweaver, 2014

What are you reading presently?

I am reading a few books... The Artist Way by Julia Cameron, for the third time, (I recently photographed her), Guruji: A Portrait of Sri K. Pattabhi Jois, and Kabbalah and the Power of Dreaming.


Self-portrait, Isola Pescatori, 2015

How do you structure your studio time? Do you work alone? Being multi-national, where do feel most at home?

I work with assistants and in collaboration. I feel most at home in New York, Fårö, and in Stockholm, Sweden. I also like my olive grove in Crete, so I guess I am trying to figure that out!



Scenes from an Island, Fårö, Sweden, 2015


Scenes from an Island, Fårö, Sweden, 2015

The impetus to create is very demanding, and like me, you seem pulled from multiple genres, what do you do to rejuvenate, and preserve yourself?

Every day I practice Ashtanga Yoga. I meditate and do Yoga Nidra (psychic sleep) which I have also started teaching. I seek a lot of solitude. I also love laughing with my husband, and that is rejuvenating if anything! I practice the Artist Way and the morning pages... writing and walking are good for the soul. 

***Dear reader, by 'morning pages,' Florence is referring to the practice of writing by longhand, three pages of stream of consciousness writing first thing in the morning, as suggested by Julia Cameron. 

Your late father left you an olive grove—I liked the photo shoot "Grove" by the way, I also own an uninhabitable slice of remote beauty and keep thinking it has worked as a muse in some fashion. What have you realized owning your 'secret garden'? Maybe some of us are space-keepers for visions.

That is a great question. I am still trying to figure that out. We all have to cultivate our garden. For me, it means that I have to journey within and work with what I have. I am continuing the work with the grove. I like—"space keeper for visions"... All I wish for is a creative life. Because in a creative life you are at play, and you are free. I dream of having a house in Crete, where I can collect my family and friends, and eat dinner under the dark, night sky. Here my easel will stand and I will hang my hammock. The grove is a symbol of civilization and peace. I like this quote... "Excellently observed," answered Candide; "but let us take care of our garden."

***And I love Voltaire's Candide as well, cheers Florence! Thank you for sharing your world.

Thank you!

 Rift Greyscales, Fårö, 2015

Ambrose on the Rocks, Fårö, 2015

An interview with the artist Denise Monaghan, Pasadena, California

"Expulsion," oil on canvas, 36" x 42."

I met Denise Monaghan in 2012 when she and I, and our daughters serendipitously became fast friends. Denise dedicates her art to the environment, and the animals and creatures she loves. She has made a conscious choice to devote the weight of her art to the haunting, emotional journey of extinction, a topic the majority of the population are too busy to contemplate on a daily basis. Contact Denise at demona@mac.com 

Denise with her daughter Anna Kaufman, and our daughter Ming Fen Congdon, playing in the snow in 2013.

Denise with her parents, Beverly and George.

What was your childhood like, where would we find young Denise as a child? Were your parent's supportive of your love of art?

My childhood was lonesome. I was an only child and a creative one who didn't fit in, nor have many friends. Animals and my imagination filled up the days in ways that made me feel alive and connected. Most likely, you would find me roaming near fields and streams, any green space, I came upon in those days. My favorite place was my mom's childhood family farm in central Missouri. We lived in St. Louis and drove there nearly every weekend. Although I suffered greatly from allergies and poison ivy, it didn't matter because it was the one place I felt free. 

 A portrait of twenty-year-old Denise.  

Mother's family farm in central Missouri.

The family home in St. Louis, where Denise lived until 5th grade.

What was your training? Were their teachers or mentors in life that influenced you?

My parents were generally tolerant of my peculiarities, though they weren't necessarily supportive. I was like a wild animal; they barely kept track of me. When I decided on art school, as the only place I could survive, they fought my decision. My dad was especially dubious. Although I was a good student, I had a lot of trouble with math and didn't get any help, so I assumed something was wrong with my faculties. I didn't think I could handle regular college, and so I took my refuge in the high school art department. All of my teachers made me feel like I was home. I naturally gravitated to making things. 

Baiji River Dolphin, oil on canvas, 32" x 72."

What about art compels you, and delivers the highest satisfaction?

Mentally, I find myself easily distracted, flitting around from thing to thing. I go off track often, following my wanderlust. Art is helpful as a meditative process, helping me focus and be still. When I get into the flow, time melts away.

Bluefin Tuna, oil and silver leaf on canvas, 36" x 72."

What is your process for composing a canvas? How do you structure studio time? Are you someone who tolerates interruption?

I am not good at being super organized and therefore try to give myself a general idea of how I will proceed with painting. Though this hasn't always worked out for me, as I've learned over the years, it doesn't necessarily save time not having a plan in place, so now I try to plan a bit more. I use mostly my photo references and sometimes collage as a way of placing elements. My time is not structured, as having a family disrupts that sometimes there is laundry, and then there is dinner and everyday tasks that get in the way. It's difficult getting in the flow when you know someone needs you. My studio space is good because it is separated from the main house, giving me a bit of protection from interruption, but even then, I interrupt myself, especially in between paintings.

Constellation, oil on canvas, 36" x 72."

What is your experience of being a female artist? How do you comprehend the rise in feminism brought on by the "me too" movement?

I don't consider myself a female artist any more than most men believe themselves to be male artists. However, it does seem to be a factor in how other's may see me, and I learned early on in art school, sexism abounds. Art history is a boy's club, and it still is. So much art is about ownership and appropriation of women's bodies when women aren't idealized or objectified that is where my true love lies. Male artists like Rembrandt, Vermeer, Manet, Courbet, Freud, and Goya (to name a few) seem to ground their female figures in fleshy reality and tenderness. Of course, the mythological depictions of ancient stories also ring truthful in other ways. Ancient Greek, northwest coast Tribal art and Indian art also appeal to me. I take my inspiration from a deep well.

 
Toughie, oil and gold leaf on hardboard, 12" x 16" (The last of the Rabbs tree frog).

 

What do you hope to impart to the viewer when they see a portrait of an endangered or extinct creature?

I hope to convey a deep and abiding love for our fellow travelers. Animals are not different than we are, they feel love, anger, and excitement as we do. They are as worthy of painting as any human. They are us, and we are them. We are all in this together. Killing off a species is killing off ourselves.

Ishi, last man, oil and gold leaf on hardboard, 18" x 18."

What are your metaphysical beliefs, and how have they evolved?

I have a pantheist point of view, in that I believe we are all connected and everything carries divinity within, even things inanimate. "The nitrogen in our DNA, the calcium in our teeth, the iron in our blood, the carbon in our apple pies were made in the interiors of collapsing stars. We are made of starstuff."—Carl Sagan. I subscribe to his sentiments. For me religion is not inside walls, but out in the fields and forests. I read a lot of ecological works. In high school, Rachel Carson, who I adore for her fierce love for the planet, started me on my way. Her Silent Spring was a seminal work. Then other heavy hitters followed: David Abram, Derrick Jensen, and John Trudell to name three contemporary writers. The people who fight to save our world, through writing, song and direct action. 


Denise has always loved photography.

Who are your art gods from any period or genre?

It changes. In high school, I was in love with the Mexican muralists because of their social justice slant. I also loved Rousseau's naive art and Paul Gauguin's Tahitian works. Nowadays, it's a big mixed bag of love. At the moment, I'm looking at Jamie Wyeth, Jenna Barton, Leah Chapman, Lisa Grossman, Jeremy Miranda, Anders Zorn, John Caple, and Barry Moser. So many great artists out there to inspire! 

Eyewitness Series—

Elephant Eye, oil on maple board, 6" x 6."

Buffalo Eye, oil on maple board, 6" x 6."

Cat Eye, oil on maple board, 6" x 6."


Crab Stalk Eyes, oil on maple board, 6" x 6."


Orangutan Eye, oil on maple board, 6" x 6."

Rabbit Eye, oil on maple board, 6" x 6."


Icelandic Horse Eye, oil on maple board, 6" x 6."

Animals play a major role in both your world and art, was there a critical turning point when their stories became your fueling passion?

Actually, in the beginning, I drew animals exclusively. Then in art school, I lost my way. At the time I went to college in the late 70s, conceptual art was all the rage, so I was like a fish out of water. I became an abstract artist to survive, but my abstraction was all based on electron microscopy imagery, so it had a basis in reality. Gradually, I started realizing that all my favorite artwork had elements of both abstraction and truth and that there was a map already laid out by the ancients on how to paint. It was archaic, but a valuable guide.

The studio in Pasadena, California.

Often when I think of you, I see you riding solo into the outskirts of L.A's light-filled harsh landscape with Boris at your side! What do you contemplate when removed from the hustle and bustle? Do you compose canvases out in the open? Is this where you finally breathe?

I need open spaces to quiet my mind. Just like the studio does, being in nature steadies me. Riding a horse is all about being in the moment, and that is where I like to be. 


Denise and her silver-dappled Icelandic horse, Fokus.

It's far easier to paint "pretty" non-controversial subjects, but you've chosen a silent battle with greed and hubris. Despite the gravitas, and urgency of our environmental plight, your canvases embody compassion, and I venture, a degree of optimism, as you are productive. What does it mean to look into the eyes of a creature the world no longer knows, or one humanity has treated unjustly?  And how has it affected your philosophy and your politics?

Pretty is in the eye of the beholder. What one person thinks of as pretty, another may find a vacuous facade. I like to feel things in more than one dimension, and that includes what some might think of as ugly. I will forever hold a space in my heart for creatures (including humans) who have to reckon with our sick greed. We are all caught up in this web, and those who try to untangle themselves are the ones who give me courage and determination. We can repair the damage, but it will take a lot of letting go. We cannot continue along the trajectory. We are as vulnerable to extinction as any animal, fish, or plant, and when we rape the planet, we rape ourselves. We are in it together. 

Munin in the Moonlight, egg tempera, and oil on hardboard, 10" x 10."


Memory Cows, oil on board.

What advice do you have for aspiring young female artists?

Art is long; life is short. Don't let anyone take away what is rightfully yours. Remember who you are.

An interview with artist Giovanna (Jo) Brunini Congdon, Part II

Jude Vivell and I visiting in Vermont, sumer 2018.

See Part I of the interview in the category "The Interviews." Thanks again to beloved friend and fellow artist, Jude Vivell of Soho, NYC for the interview!

What is your experience of being a woman artist? How do you comprehend and experience the new surge of feminism that the "Me Too" movement has brought our lives?

A woman artist is a woman in her leading natural role as creator. Women are innately scientific, diplomatic, philosophical, and justice defenders. They are anything they aspire to be. Male domination is what we've come to expect, but not where the truth lies. I have great respect for the Italian Baroque painter, Artemisia Gentileschi. In the 17th century, as a youth in the Roman court, she challenged her tutor, and rapist, endured torture to prove her validity and won. In Florence, Artemisia succeeded in becoming the first woman admitted to the Academia del Disegno (Academy of the Arts and Drawing). She should be in the elementary textbooks our children tote. My reality with the "Me Too" movement is visceral, after leaving home as a youth, I was abused, not raped, but placed in a dangerous situation of life and death. A product of a peaceful, loving home, violence hit me like a broadsword landing across my shoulder. I seldom heard my parents raise their voices, and they never spanked. I was a quiet and serious child born of idyll and nurture. And that environment created a determined, willful, and adventurous youth. My male role model, my father, was playful, private, and present. I was delighted to adore him. And my mother was a feminist who attained her Master in Art History when my sister and I left the nest empty. Everything about my upbringing lent me to believe in female empowerment. When I faced adversity at a tender age, it hit hard. I used to think my episode with cruelty was my unpinning. But it was the well that taught me to drink, and the reflecting pool that motivated me to see.
     Presently, the line of decency hides behind a veil, but make no mistake it will emerge again stronger than ever. The "horsemen of the apocalypse" have their hands on the reins of greed, ignorance, injustice, and corruption, but not for long. More women are running for political seats than noted in the history of time. Decency is not a political party—it is a quality of being. 


Our eldest son, Johns Hopkins Congdon III, at his 2018 graduation from Vermont Law School with a Juris Doctor, and Master of Energy Regulation and Law. Watch out planet destroyers—another planet defender is taking the lead. 


My father, Babbo, and I visiting the Italian grandparents. 

 
In your life, the impetus to create is very demanding—taking form in both visual art and writing. What do you think is the main thing you want to say or express with each genre of your work?

I have always expressed myself by pen and brush. I am an extension of the longest branch of the tree stock that birthed me. On learning to write, I wrote poems for my parents, "The cat, and the bird..." In my father's pride and zeal over his first-born, he copied the collection and passed it around the office. Now I share my poetry on Instagram and my blog. In my novel, I write to answer a question or ask one. In my memoir, I write a coming of age story, one dealing with survival, and a quixotic quest for beauty. Following George Bernard Shaw's advice, "If you tell people the truth, make them laugh, or they'll kill you," I like to think I appreciate humor and use it when appropriate. Painting is the marriage of meditation and inspiration. Artists make their world. If not they cut off an ear, enter one too many duels, or die on a rocky outcrop. We meet the populace at the crossings that bind art and writing to the human soul.


The family minus one son, whose taking this portrait in Venice, 2007. Ming, our youngest, is draped over the shoulder of Luca Benigni, our Italian AFS son. Johns and I hosted three international students through AFS, independently, across one year each at our home. 



My lovely dog Hugo. The carpet is art by the talented Barcelonian  Nani Marquina 

I want to know all about the space or spaces that you work in, how are they arranged? How do you maintain your workspace? Do you mind others entering them? Do you tolerate interruption?

Well, dear Jude, the reality will disappoint! I can share an image of someone else's great studio, but I don't have one. Mine is in the drafting stage. I am a nomad artist. My easel stands at one end of the living room. I do have a lovely writing desk, of my design, and Johns' masterful craftsmanship. There are few to compare. My favorite workstation though is sitting perched like a bird on a rug. My childhood home, decorated with vibrant Persians, found me quietly bent over my drawing pad creating for hours on end, as the folks watched the news or Masterpiece Theater. My parents contemplated sending me to RISD by the time high school rolled around, though never mentioned it, fearing the cost. And so, as if by fate, we sent our eldest son Johns to RISD instead. Things haven't changed. I move my writing to follow the sun as it makes its daily transit over our home, from a marble floor in the southeast, to the Persian in the west. I always have a notebook and pencil with me, because words are ever present. 
     I work best alone in the house but can handle movement. How do I maintain my physical space? In writing, paper and more paper, post its, and writing binders. When my organization starts to get messy—as the personality traits I've recorded per character grow, I do an overhaul not letting anything go until the final draft. Writing a book is an academic venture. I am competitive, and want to come out on top. But more than anything I want to connect. People mistakingly think of artists as reclusive, and ethereal entities, and there's all of that, but the impetus driving art is expression first, and it must be received. Life is a metaphor for everything we can't quantify. We constantly are being transformed like the face of a cliff—by moonlight falling across our slumbering form. An artist's task is to give shape to the dark side, to the elusive joy and majesty of living. 



A portrait of me in my early thirties which reads more like a painting. Thank you, Jude!

An interview with AD 100 Designer and Architect Robert Couturier, New York City

Robert Couturier at home with the babies in Connecticut, his favorite place on earth. (2018) 

You, dear Robert, were the first to call me a poet, and I've loved you ever since, as you've been a mentor of sorts to me, tell us what Jimmy Goldsmith meant to you.

Thank you!! 
Jimmy was the father I never had, forgiving, supportive, and kind. He was a fascinating man always supporting, immensely cultivated, always curious about world events with opinions of his own, often controversial but honorable. Jimmy was a huge support to me from the very start. I visited him just before he died. It took me a while to recover.


Living room in Paris.



Robert, age twenty-one, at a wedding in Paris.


Where would we find the ten-year-old Robert? What made you happiest? How did your childhood influence your aesthetic?

At ten, I was already at boarding school and had been for three years. I think I was sweet and quiet, very bad at sports. I read all the time. Having grown up in a relative emotional vacuum, I related to rooms, objects, and art more than I did with people. I guess I was quite introverted and fearful of the outside world. 


Robert, looking mysterious at thirty-three.


Living room in an apartment on 5th Avenue in NYC.

You were very close to your maternal grandmother, please tell us about your time with her?

My grandmother was quite stern, not the mushy, loving, hugging type, but she was loving and supportive as well as highly educated and intelligent and had only one desire for me which was to excel in whatever endeavor I chose. She saved my life by taking me away from punitive abusive parents, and she is the one who paid for all my studies, boarding school and university. I loved her, and I recognize today that she loved me inordinately, in her discreet, shy and nonphysical way. 


Robert dining at twenty-one. 

What training have you had? Would you do it the same again?

My grandmother did not believe in state-run anything, schools, colleges, or universities, so I went to a private boarding school for 11 years and then five years, plus one preparatory interior design/architecture school. I wouldn't do it again as I would probably have preferred going straight to architectural school, one of my favorite subjects was descriptive geometry which is hardly a decorating discipline. But it is what it is, and I don't regret it. 

In Kent, you live in a home you created, drafting from conception. How do your Connecticut home and your Soho, NYC home fulfill you in different measure?

NY is my professional self and Connecticut our, Jeffrey and mine, private universe. Both worlds are quite different and detached from the other. 


Robert, celebrating with his best friend, author Cecile David-Weill. (1998)


Robert's living room in Connecticut.

It could be said Bach is your musical idol, what does he mean to you? And what are your favorite pieces by any composer?

Bach is probably now what I listen to 95% of the time. It is to me, perfection, balance, pure and mental joy. There are too many favorite pieces by too many different composers. But as a complete musical experience of depth and breadth I would put "Saint Matthew's Passion" as number one and then Parsifal as number two, as an ensemble of works I would put Bach's cantatas 220 of them, and then Wagner's Tetralogy. 

—Dear reader and Robert fans, I logged over the years, many of those favorite pieces which Robert shared with me. All is not lost!

J. S. Bach, Erbame Dich -Andreas School, "Matthaus Passion" (39Aria A)
Franz Schubert, Piano Trio op 100 in E Flat, D929
Franz Schubert, "Standchen Serenade"
Beethoven, "Hammerklavier" Sonata, no 29 in B Flat op. 106, Adagio Sostenuto
Beethoven, 29th Sonata (Peter Serkin)
Beethoven, Romance No. 2 in F Major op. 50
Beethoven, 6 Ecossaises, WoO 53
Vivaldi, Nisi Domini RV 608 IV. Cum Deduit
Vivaldi Gloria -2- Et in Terra Pax (Orchestra de Chambre de Lausanne)
Mozart, Great Mass in C minor K427 (417a)
Mozart, No. 3 No. 4 K. 218
Mozart, Sonata in B Major "Don Giovanni"
Monteverdi, "Zefio torna," Nuria Rial (soprano), Philippe Jaroussky (countertenor) L'Apreggiata
Monteverdi, Si dolce è'l tormento - Jaroussky (Pluhar)
Albinoni, Concerto No. 29 in D Major
César Franck, Violin Sonata A Major
Mendelshon, Cantos Shalom, "Kol Nidrei"
Pergolesi, Stabat Mater - Final movement (Quando Corpus Morietur)
Handel, "Zadok the Priest" (Monteverdi Choir)
Zino Francescatti, violin (Saint-Saens)
Chopin, Variations Op. 2
Fiddler-Yiddish Song- by Misha Marmar

—Don Quixote Grand Pas Kitri Variation (A ballet he loves), and Robert hasn't said so, but the first opera he attended was Rossini's, Il Barbiere di Siviglia, with his grandfather, and he cried through most of it at seven years old.


Robert, Jeffrey Morgan, and I in Connecticut, after having dinner in July when we first met in 2008.

What did your new life in the USA reveal to you? What were you glad to lose and what if anything did you miss?

I have always lived here and there. I have been coming to New York City since I was a child, one grandmother lived here part of the year, and the other had visited many times. I loved the freedom, the creativity, and the anonymity of NY, even if I preferred the beauty, the elegance, and the refinement of Paris. PARIS was who I was and NY who I would become. I knew that I could not evolve into being who I thought I was destined to be by staying in Paris. So at the end of one of my trips here I decided to stay. And that was nearly 40 years ago. 



Guest Bedroom/ Office in a Midtown High-Rise.

What does your sculpted garden give you? 

My garden is the extension of the inside of my house in Kent, the while being a parenthesis in time, an imaginary world apart from the rest. 

What visions for the future of humanity and art do you have?

I have no personal vision about the future of humanity only a distant and faint hope that we won't destroy ourselves while blowing up this amazingly beautiful earth. I am not an optimist that way. 

You once said Le Petite Trianon was a building you couldn't live without, how does it inspire you?

Le Petite Trianon is the perfect emanation of the 18th century. A work of art that is greater than the sum of its parts. And for that reason, it is an inspiration. 


Robert, celebrating his birthday with Mercedes Bass in New York City, 2016. 

Marsh Court Library in Hampshire, England with Golden Ribbon Light by Ingo Maurer.

If you could spend an afternoon with anyone past or present, who would that be?

I don't know really... I love my friends, not sure I want anyone else.



Dining room on Sutton Place, NYC.

What are you reading presently? Are there authors you repeatedly return to like an old friend? I credit you with teaching me the meaning of being Proustian. 

I am reading Daniel Mendelsohn's An Odyssey which I love and have almost finished, and Yuval Noah Harari's A Brief History of the Future which I find deeply fascinating if quite unsettling. I am reading Balzac as well which I find so informative on humanity! And then when I am really tired, I reread the odd Agatha Christie!

Dogs, and more dogs, you live for your beloved Shih Tzu. What lessons in life have they taught you?

Dogs are the better part of ourselves... they make me so happy and so content. Not sure they give me lessons in life other than that the state of humanity isn't so happy and that intelligence or conscience is the surest way to unhappiness or rather discontent. 


Robert in France, visiting with an old friend's Hubert. 

I make an effort to remind you to stop and rest! You are a doer and achiever; it's hard to shut you down. When you grab a slice of serenity, what does that slice of time equal?

Sadly I think I never will, it isn't in my nature, but three hours a week I do yoga, for three hours I stop thinking about outside circumstances!!!

Who are your gods in the art world?

—Praxiteles because in a world that did not know perspective, he saw in space so beautifully! 
—Rembrandt and Vermeer.
—Johan Sebastian Bach
—Chardin


Robert Couturier: Designing Paradises by RIZOLLI, 2014
Thank you Robert!

An interview with the artist Judith Vivell of Soho, New York City, Part II

See Part I in The Interviews. To inquire about her art, contact Jude at judithvivell@gmail.com 

Abstract, oil on plasterboard, 2018

Jude, photographed in the 70s. 

What is your experience of being a female artist? 

I grew up in a family of sisters. Without brothers, I never saw how parents might have treated girls and boys differently. There was no talk that I can recall of women being limited by social norms or in any other way. We were each expected to go to college and to have careers. My maternal grandmother and great-grandmother were widows and both businesswomen. My great-grandmother ran her deceased husband's Girard piano company in Oakland, California. My grandmother was a practitioner in the Christian Science Church, which I believe is like being a minister. According to my mother, she was the first woman to own and drive a car in Oakland. She also bought and managed several apartment buildings. They were both suffragettes. My mother was a dress designer. I never knew a time when she wasn't working. My father's mother was in the first graduating class of registered nurses in San Francisco. She became the surgical nurse for the first plastic surgeon in the Bay Area. My father's sister had a P.H.D. from Berkeley. Her first job was to be Mary Pickford's social secretary. She learned to operate a plane, and during the Second World War she started out as a ferry pilot and later taught men to fly. She also spoke fluent Chinese and ran the Chinese Play Ground in San Francisco, which was like a WMCA for Chinese people. 

Jude's mother, from a series of 'nude' portraits.

When I was twelve years old, my grandfather died and left my sister and I a substantial trust fund that was to be used only for education. We were in a position to go to the best schools we could get into, and to go as far as we wanted to go. I knew I wanted to be an artist, but I also understood that was a great way to starve to death. The decision to become an artist was difficult because I had been given to believe that no matter what, I would have to support myself. My solution was to become an Art History Major at Berkeley and later to come to New York to do graduate work in Art History at Columbia University. I thought this way I could always support myself as an academic and paint on the side.

Artwork from the 60s

In the meantime, however, I had taken a year in Colombia before graduate school and made a living there teaching ESL. When I got to New York, I got a part-time job while in graduate school, doing the same. It occurred to me that I could be an ESL teacher and paint on the side. But first I needed to go to art school. So I took a leave of absence from the Art History department at Columbia and off I went to the Art Students' League. While there I never experienced any discrimination. I received both a prestigious monitorship and a scholarship, which enabled me to have morning and afternoon classes tuition-free. All but one teacher met me with great respect, and I realize now he was patronizing me because of my sex. At the time I thought he didn't get what I was trying to do artistically. After two and a half years at the League, I pursued an MA in painting from Hunter. There too, I encountered no condescending attitudes or discrimination because of being a woman. 

A photo-booth portrait series Jude took in the 1960s. 

I received my MFA and had my first solo show in NY in 1971. I immediately got into three galleries. I knew that there was terrible discrimination against women, and I worked for women's rights trying to change attitudes towards women, both in my work and in my life. But I, myself, never felt discrimination in the world. I actually encountered it with my husband and my in-laws who had not been part of the liberal culture I grew up in. If I didn't make it into a gallery or a show, I assumed that it was the work, not my sex. At home, however, I experienced severe endemic sexism that my (in other respects) very politically savvy and progressive husband still held. More than anything, it was what was happening at home that stayed momentum, and caused me to limit my scope. By 1973, I knew I had to have my life back. My husband and I split up. He is a dear man, and we are still friends, but he was very much a creature of his family and his time. I knew I could not be a victim of his cultural limitations. 

In this photo, I had someone take a picture of my torso and wrote, "Pay your own way," over and over. At this time, I was getting divorced and had decided not to take support or alimony. I felt very fragile but recognized I had to be brave and pay my way or I would never be able to look myself in the mirror again. This piece was the result of that decision. 



I have never questioned my choice of becoming an artist. I've always thought that my work would make a difference. If the art were good enough, I would be accepted. I think that belief has held true throughout my entire career. Perhaps, I'm naive, but I don't think I've been left out of anything or overlooked because of my sex. And I have been aware of discrimination in other areas, so I think I would have known.

How has the voice of the "Me Too" movement resonated with you?

I have been raped twice in my life. I decided each time that to let myself feel like a victim was the worst thing I could do. I never wanted to give anyone that much power over my life. I acted the same way I would if someone robbed my house, or someone caused me to be in an auto accident. I did whatever was necessary to repair the damage—in one case I had to get an abortion—and get on with my life. That is just who I am. I've been harassed in various ways by men. But the truth is that for most of my life I've worked for myself and was not under a man's power to keep my job or get ahead in my field. Maybe that has been intentional. I don't like anyone, especially a man, to have dominion over me. I want to deal with women in business. All my dealers are women. I've had three male dealers in my life. Two of them were certifiably insane, and I think they were both scared to death of me. The other one was just a dear guy. I think he was gay.

The "Me Too" movement is important to me because it is a just cause and because I have a daughter and granddaughter. Though we are physically smaller and weaker, women deserve respect. I believe the only way forward is—by shaming and outing sexual predators, as the "Me Too" movement is doing. Power corrupts. It must be limited. It's a simple equation. But we will always have to figure out ways of protecting ourselves. I think we are on the cusp of achieving that. It is an inspiring time. 

Jude, visiting with her daughter Cassandra Vivell Neyenesch and granddaughter Io Girard Dersin, 2018.

 

Who are your gods in art, literature, and music?

It is not a question I can answer. It feels limiting in some way. I would not be truthful in replying, because there are so many favorites in each field that it would take a complete volume to explain my feelings. At the moment (meaning just for today) I love Rousseau in art, Ravi Shankar in music, my daughter in literature. Why? I know there are no words to say what I see, so I'm going to be honest, and say, I can't tell you.

Jude, working an interview for "Talking About Art" in the recording studio of WBAI, New York City, during the 1970s. 

I want to hear more about your experience hosting "Talking About Art." How did your involvement with the moderately radical, listener-sponsored radio station WBAI happen? What were your responsibilities and how did they shape your youth? What did the political culture of New York City look like in the 60s and 70s? If you could impart a few critical messages from the era to future generations, what would they be?

I can't remember how I got involved with WBAI. Someone in the BAI Arts Department may have asked if I would volunteer to produce a program. I don't remember who asked me though. I did not make up the name, "Talking About Art." It existed. What I did there was I invited people who were cutting edge or interesting in some way to come on my program and talk about what they were doing. I was very much part of the downtown art scene and knew a lot of people. I was surprised by the positive reception I received; people were more than happy to be on the show. It was a great moment for WBAI because it was during the Vietnam War and it was the only station that had full and extensive coverage and very left-wing coverage of what was going on. So in those days, EVERYONE listened to the station. It was sort of like what WNYC is now. And it was a crucial moment in history, in much the same way as the present moment is a frightening and very critical moment. Mainly I did shows about art, but once in a while I would stand in for one of the lit people and do an interview with someone like Buckminster Fuller or Doris Lessing. 

I edited the final tape of the show—I mean with a razor blade I cut out and edited the program. It is impossible to believe that I did that now. But that was the process. 

The politics of the time remind me a lot of what is going on now with the kids from Parkland and Me Too. Young men were being drafted to go and fight in a war that nobody believed in and one we were obviously losing (WBAI was in the forefront of uncovering the fact and of showing the lies told by our leaders). Young men were demonstrating in the streets and in the capital because they were fighting for their lives in the same way the school kids are fighting for their lives now. Things get very real, very fast when your own life or the life of a loved one is on the line. That is why Nixon's doing away with the draft was such a tragedy for the politics of this country. Now it is some poor kid who needs a job and has no other opportunity who joins the army and gets killed. It is all too easy to overlook those lives. It's the same problem with Black Lives Matter. 

If the police brutalized everyone, instead of a minority, there would be an outcry, and something might change. Luckily for women, a considerable number of women work now, and a vast amount encounter discrimination and are being sexually harassed and assaulted. So things will change. The problems faced by minorities will only change when we see them as OUR problem, no matter what our color. I don't have any idea how to make that happen. When I look at the generation of kids who have started the Fight For Our Lives movement, I am in awe. I have no words of wisdom for them, but they have plenty for me.

What are your metaphysical beliefs and how have they evolved?

I believe in a higher power that I call, The Universe. It is an energy that is flowing through all living things. It is a mystical body that runs underground of our consciousness like the roots of a fern, which manifest in an actual plant (a human being or other living things) every so often. But underneath we are all connected, and we are all part of The Universe. I believe that thought has a direct effect on this energy— that is a dominant force. I think that The Universe is me and I am The Universe. I listen to the inner voice as if I were listening to God because that is what I believe I am doing. 

   

Judith Vivell and her husband Gordon McClure at home in Soho, 2018.

An interview with artist Giovanna (Jo) Brunini Congdon, USA

 

Judith Vivell has interviewed me for the blog. Jude is a fellow artist and beloved friend working in Soho, New York City. In the seventies, she hosted a radio program called "Talking About Art" on the moderately radical, listener-sponsored station WBAI. Jude and I met on Instagram over our art. Please find my interview with her under "The Interviews."

My lovely parents on a picnic,  during their courtship in Boston, Massachusetts, 1956.

Where did you grow up? Who were your parents? What did they do for a living? Tell me about your education. Were there teachers or mentors that influenced you?

I grew up in Vermont, where I live still, a purely magical place. It is a land of introspection, with a degree of isolation, and home to many artists. My parents were both educators at various times in their lives, and each the first generation to receive a college degree. My father was a business manager at IBM, and later became a college professor. My mother was a bright woman, dedicated to civil liberties and progressive change. I have a BS in Education from the University of Vermont. I had two mentors while there; one was renowned for his methodology in the teaching of reading. He and I became good friends. Professor Lyman C. Hunt taught me to write. He worked solely in the grad department, singled me out and overwrote me into his classes. We had a remarkable connection. Dr. Hunt was about to retire, and my life was beginning. The other mentor was Professor Ted Brenneman in the religion department.

A goat farmer...his specialty was mythology. The buzz was that Dr. Brenneman talked to his goats—Findhorn-styled phenomenology. Professor Brenneman was short, and his heavy-set beard reminded me of Tolstoy. When he arrived at his Myth and Creation class, his wool plaid jacket had hay sticking to it, and his Bean boots bore the muck of the barn. A big Joseph Campbell proponent, he introduced me to the concept of cosmology and culture married as one. It was fascinating sitting for his lectures. His grounded exploration of the metaphysical enthralled me. Dr. Brenneman saw the world's religions at the point where they meet head-on.

My sister Lisa and me, June 13, 1982, protesting nuclear arms in New York City at a gathering of 700,000 participants. We were there with Bread not Bombs political theater from the Northeast Kingdom, Vermont.

What are your metaphysical beliefs now? How have they evolved?

You asked question two in a timely fashion without knowing what question number one held in store. I am not surprised. As new friends Jude, we are quite adept at bouncing off the other in meaningful ways. As a child, I began asking the big questions about existence. I guess you could have called me a born seeker. According to Dr. Brenneman, by walking the path of personal growth—a youth followed the way of expansion. My metaphysical framework at the time told me 'there must be something more.' And in that period I believed the search had structure. I don't anymore. I see spiritual growth as a continually ebbing river; I can relax about it because waterways are always flowing. There is a ripple on even the calmest of surfaces. It all comes back to rivers and tides. The big gain of enlightenment I once believed I chased has taken a backseat to my passions, and to the art of becoming compassionate. 
     I called Dr. Brenneman one day out of the blue a decade ago, to ask him a question, having spoken with him after graduation only once. I'd been researching the history of Black Madonnas. I am a Virgo, and that might be why the imagery of Madonnas follows my life. He answered the phone, and I asked, "What is your opinion of the Black Madonna?" And he nearly jumped out of his skin. He had just walked in the door after arriving back home from a world tour with his wife visiting Black Madonna sites—the Black Madonna Pilgrimage. He was a bit freaked by my question, asking, "How did you know? Why did you ask that?" I had no answer. He then relayed his encounter. Standing, peering over a hole in the ground above a site below deemed sacred, he had the sensation the goddess screamed at him, in an attempt to pull him into the bowels of the earth. Terrified, he'd never experienced anything like it, Dr. Brenneman wore the chilling phenomenon on his spine when I'd asked him my question. 
     All this said, my metaphysical belief has a great deal more to do with the everyday mystical, if you will, encounters we experience than with the great hereafter. I do believe in a God, or Great Spirit, that is unquantifiable, and I believe in free-will. I think we are placed here to become mighty oaks, and that happens daily. I imagine souls return like the seasons, and there is an unseen universe above us, around us—a mirror image of the now. I think physicists one day will show us the string dimensions of time—physicists will prove if you will, the concepts of our spirituality. As I understand it, they are hot on the trail of incredible discoveries now. Though that reality's far off, I imagine. The mystical is not in a book written between pages. It is in the minimal encounters we record each day. It is the voice calling from the earth screaming at us to see. Paradise is the earth we stand upon, in magnitudes of love, we can't understand, created for us, for each living creature. 

What is your writing process? In painting? Do these activities feed back and forth, or are they separate?

I was born a doer. I take my paintings to bed, or just about, and spring from bed to write a storyline. I am all in when working. Passion consumes me, either in writing, painting, designing a house, or a piece of furniture. I often forget to eat. If examined, there is little separation between the disciplines in my life. I cut a hole in the wall where there was none, and board up the original door. I cut and paste and edit. The walls of my house appear as an oversized canvas, and so I paint a floral frieze with dragonflies. When it no longer resonates, I paint it over. Very little is static in my life and everything matters. I've been known to rearrange the furniture in a hotel room even though we're spending one night. Anything ugly goes in the closet and comes back out precisely so before we leave. My demands might make me the last person you'd want to live alongside indefinitely. Nonetheless, I've learned patience living in unfinished houses most of my adult life, because we accomplish it ourselves. It could be said,  I seek or prefer "blank documents" that perpetually ask me to write upon them. We get the house done eventually. And they've been called works of art—"A home you've crafted like a piece of furniture." On my writing and painting, I spend eight hours a day. I can't say I've ever experienced writer's block, and am never bored. Please don't hate me for that admission. Blue, yes, but not bored. I aim to shun superlatives as in never but have to give credit to my mother who encouraged my sister and me to be creative. In life, I am disciplined: my writing entails a binder per character. When one talks to me their words then have a place to land until the whole package falls together. I have a new canvas dreamed up before mid-point on the one before me. I try to get one project completed; I'm working on a memoir. Not yet published, the hard work starts soon. And am nearing completion on a novel set in the Highlands. It is dedicated to my Scots grandmother Lily's memory. I bounce between brush and pen until one discipline screams at me "basta"—enough is enough, get your ass back over here.

Ballet in the White Room, by Giovanna Brunini Congdon, oil on canvas, 14" x 14," 2018.

What is the relationship between your painting and your writing?

I like my work to tell a story. I guess you could call me a realist with a vivid imagination. Often my work references my love of history, either universal or personal. My most recent canvas Boy Posse, 2018, harks back to the time I spent in Mexico my nineteenth year. Leda and the Swan, 2017, is my interpretation of a stonewall carved frieze from 9 BCE at the Roman temple Ara Pacis, now a museum in Rome, Italy. I like realism and beauty in my writing and my art. In this way, my life responds to my inner world. The feelings that well up inside me have to come out, and so, I write and paint. If I had to give up one, it would be designing, but writing and painting are my oxygen. Artists are complicated souls. We think the rest of the world understands us and this naivete can get us in trouble. It is also our gift.

June 2012

Portrait from "The Blue Series," 2012, by my eldest son Johns H. Congdon III. I painted the room in three layers of hand ragged color to produce a turquoise abalone shell effect.

How would you describe the process for your painting day? Is it the same for writing or a poetry day? Do you intermingle them or does each get its day—space—time?

In all honesty, art isn't something I structure—it's something I am. I've done art all my life. It's time that's the problem, never having enough. That said, I drive my life with structure, things don't fall apart so quickly. I am a runner, I run before breakfast and then get to work with a pencil or brush, lots of pencils, not enough brushes. Running and yoga are my meditation. When the children were little they had my full attention, you couldn't have torn me apart from them. As an empty nester, I hate leaving a project. I move my easel or computer following the sun across the day. In the northeast, sunshine is a commodity I can't ignore. If I've begun a canvas, I'm not letting go of it until I've finished. The writing I can park and jump back into, but poetry like painting, I don't walk from till I hammer it out. Writing inspiration often happens when running. An opening line or piece from the middle fully formed appears, and I'll run inside with Hugo, my Australian shepherd, and scribble it down. If I haven't written a poem in a while, I'll sit down and give it a priority. I'm an emotional person. I have a log of topics waiting. I've found leaving the memoir and novel to rest advantageous. In my absence, a scene or protagonist has gained strength or empowerment. I get a kick out of my characters; they are alive. I love them like attractive, complicated people I want to meet. I have a blast. I laugh a lot at myself. I love writing dialogue and painting pictures when I write. 

The three kids and I bask in the sunshine, Rome, Italy, 2000. I took a solo adventure and taught first grade at an international school in the fabled Castelli Romani hills south of Rome. 

Who are your painting, writing, and poetry gods?

Painting: Da Vinci, Botticelli, Caravaggio, Artemesia Gentileschi, Rembrandt, Titian, Wyeth, and William G. Congdon. (There are so many...)

For whatever reason, Caravaggio's story vibrates in my memory. He lived a tormented life, to put it mildly, imagine white heat dressed entirely in black, yielding an impressive sword, with a small black dog for company A very mysterious guy, Caravaggio swore a lot, almost as much as I. I think he represents how human it is to be your own worst enemy, and still, somehow he accomplished great work. Leonardo, for being not only genius but compassionate. Botticelli influenced my imagination as a child. Artemesia rose above male supremacy, surviving abuse, and in that experience we are sisters. Rembrandt painted raw emotion captured in the light. American Abstract Expressionist painter Bill Congdon was Johns' uncle, an amazing person, and an energetic impassioned painter. I'll post on his work shortly. 

My children Johns H. Congdon III, Ming Fen Congdon, and Joseph Congdon with me in 2018.

Writing: Anna Karenina, and War and Peace by Tolstoy, In Search of Lost Time by Marcel Proust, Issac Bashevis Singer, The Odyssey by Homer, The Grapes of Wrath, by John Steinbeck, Joseph Campbell, and most recently, I've appreciated James Rebanks' memoir, The Shepherd's Life.

Tolstoy, Steinbeck, and Issac Bashevis Singer, I fell in love with my seventeenth year, and over my early youth, they opened chasms within me. Proust, I met in my mid-forties with Balzac. Proust and I, see and hear, the rustle of a skirt hem down a hall. Homer, I open and read a passage randomly.

Poetry: Lord Alfred Tennyson, Dylan Thomas, Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman, John Keats, Lord Byron, Emily Dickinson, and Maya Angelou. 

I've loved Tennyson forever and a day. Dylan Thomas and I played hooky in the school library, instead of acing an A in chemistry. Which never would have happened anyway, I am glad he led me astray. He was divinely distracting across my teen years. My journal script was written all in lower case as a dedication to Dylan Thomas. And it's been said Maya was a redwood tree, and she was. 


Jude and I began a discussion on the place of women in art and the world. The following is part of my response which will pick-up in Part II. I will ask her the same questions in Part II of her interview.

—Women are asked to set a higher bar of perfection than men. Women don't get the same breaks. As Bette Davis said, "When a man gives his opinion, he's a man. When a woman gives her opinion, she's a bitch." The differences between how men and women are expected to present themselves in the world intrigue me. I seek frankness and simplicity when I can. Make-up, or no make-up, die your hair, don't color your hair—none of it matters in the grand scope of things. For me, my stance is a way of encountering head-on (pun intended) gender inequality. The male figure sporting a head of cropped white hair is deemed elegant and dignified. Women have been paraded and powdered, and stuffed into corsets between miles of fabric since time immemorial. Not buying entirely into it—though indeed I love beautiful things—is my conscious decision and political statement. The conscription to an idealized female beauty means our twelve-year-old daughters believe they need a new nose. And the sad reality is it happens. I watch the TV journalists, and political analysts, as one brunette after another in the warfare against age, slowly morphs into a blonde. Isn't her beauty as compelling as his?

To be continued. Thank you, Jude! 

An interview with Welsh artist Clive Hicks-Jenkins

Crown of Leaves, by Clive Hicks-Jenkins, 2016

Clive Hicks-Jenkins lives in the Welsh hills at his home Ty Isaf with his beloved Jack Russell terrier, Jack. To purchase his work contact the Martin Tinney Gallery.

Clive's official school portrait. (I'm guessing his sweetness is about seven years old.)

I have many questions, Clive. The moment I saw your work, I was captivated. We share a love of the medieval and the imagination. We both embrace living remotely with our art, close to nature. Can you begin by telling your readers about your childhood, and whether or not you believe it influenced your art today? What was the ten-year-old Clive like? Where would we find him?

I was shy almost to the point of muteness in company, though happy as a lark as long as I had books to read or pencils and paper to draw. My mother often said later that she thought I was deft enough with a pencil, though nothing survives. My parents were not of a generation that held their children's scribblings to be as anything of value or worthy of keeping. But in all other respects, my mother was hugely supportive and spent money that was scarce on the books that I loved so much. I have an earlier memory of being in my father's lap as he taught me to read from a Rupert Bear annual he held in front of us. "C" is for cat. C - A - T - CAT!" That was the best lesson of all, and the best gift, my precocious capacity to read. I was reading reasonably well by the time I went to primary school. Interesting, because I never saw him read a book himself. Papers to do with work, or a newspaper. But never anything else. I'm not sure he can ever have read a novel. But he was good with words and had a gold medal in Pitman's shorthand. To the day he died at eighty-seven he could take down a conversation around the table conducted at a fair old lick. All my life I have loved and collected books. I left school when I was fifteen and a half and began to work. Everything I learned thereafter came from books. 

My mother loved mysteries and romance novels. I cut my teeth on Agatha Christies and Georgette Heyers. But her true passion was for the cinema, and she made me her confederate in that from the beginning. Not children's films, but just about everything else. We would sit in the 'dress-circle' of the local cinema on Saturday afternoon—she thought the stalls vulgar—and I would snuggle with her and watch the screen entranced. Pictures conjured out of light above our heads, the beams turbulent with the rising smoke from her cigarettes. I thought the whole experience of cinema was the most glamorous and thrilling. I lived for those Saturday matinees, the cinema almost deserted. It was our realm.

I played with toy theaters as a child. An actor friend of the family gave me some old Pollock's scenic sheets, though no stage and no character sheets. So I made a stage and drew the characters. And here I am, more than a half-century on, still making toy theaters and characters to play on their stages. I also had marionettes, which I loved. I was never happier than when making constructed worlds. I felt safer in them. I still do.

The Green Knight Arrives, by Clive Hicks-Jenkins, 2016, private collection

What training have you had if any? Is there a mentor in your past? I am thinking of historical characters that inspire, as well as feet on the ground...

Mentors. There have been many and various throughout my life, but I'll confine myself here to the early ones. I don't think I even realized what was happening with the earlier ones. I know I didn't thank them, not realizing at the time the value of their contributions. Mel Thomas and Mollie Wanklyn at Monmouthshire Young People's Theater. Mel was the Drama Officer for the county, and he took me to MYPT when my parents confided to him that they were worried about me. Mollie was the main tutor and director, and she enthralled me with her "actress" voice and inspiring choral verse speaking, which hit me like revelatory lightening. Myra Silcox, my fearsomely waspish but encouraging ballet teacher, and Bunny Griffiths, who cast and choreographed me in the MYPT production of Peter and the Wolf, and showed me how shyness could vanish when I inhabited another character. Later, in London at a vocational school, my headmistress, Miss Brierly, once paid—privately—for a small group of pupils to attend a performance of Gemma Jones as Shaw's Saint Joan. We sat in a box, and it was another revelatory moment. I've watched Gemma Jones on stage and in films all my life, most recently in the film God's Own Country. Boy and man I've loved her work, all unknown to her. She is everything I most admire in an actor. Her eyes can tell you all you need to know about her character, her life, her dreams, her joy, her despair. Miss Brierly opened a door to all that for me, with the gift of a ticket to a performance in which a gifted actor gave a luminous performance that became a gold standard for me as I moved toward a career as a director. In my teens, after I'd left the school, a letter came in which she enquired what the results of my O levels (graduation exams for non-Brit readers) had been. She wrote, joshingly, "You children can be so ungrateful. You never think we'd like to know!" And I lived up to that summation because I didn't reply. Awkward and unformed as I was, her words at that time didn't strike me with the force they do in memory, all these years later. I wish, I wish...

Clive, Molly Wanklyn and his friend Linda Henderson, backstage during a performance of Maeterlinck's The Bluebird.


I had no further education after vocational school. My first career as a choreographer and director ended when I was in my early thirties. I was successful enough, but not, for many reasons, happy, and I walked away from it. These days I'm skeptical of vocational schools as forcing beds for young talent. I went to ballet school when I was too young to know my own mind, though I thought I did. I believe that children who embark too soon on their training and career trajectories, too often lack a more rounded view of the world, and that can be catastrophically disadvantageous in later life. This is why you see so much burnout in fields of sport and entertainment. I think I was quite strong to walk away from a professional world that didn't make me happy, though it was a strength that came wrapped in the disguise of a nervous breakdown. Life is complicated. I walked away from something I had fallen out of love with. Yet that didn't stop me from grieving for what was lost. I grieved for my abandoned career for a very long time. I was forty before I began painting. I taught myself. The last thing on earth I wanted at that point was to go to school again. The process was private, diligent, and exhaustive. I have always worked ferociously hard. I don't have an off-switch.

Clive, about sixteen years old, filming on the Yorkshire moors. He is wearing the boater.

Working with a dancer at the Vienna Festival.

You live in a lovely estate called Ty Isaf, does it have a family history or did you and yours adopt it?

It's not an estate. It's a house with some land. About four acres. A horse paddock with some loose-boxes, two orchards, a rose terrace, a lawn, and a pleasure garden. We also have a bit of woodland, a stream and a couple of waterfalls. it sounds grander than it is. A lot of the garden has a natural, wild feel. We've planted many trees. In the first years of the 20th century, Ty Isaf was the family home of Rose Macaulay, the novelist. She lived here with her parents after she'd graduated from university, and wrote her first novel in the house. (We don't know which room was hers.) We have photographs of how the house looked back then, which was not so very different to now, though they had a grassed tennis court with pretty corner pavillions that's now just a lawn. The pavillions are long gone.

The view from Clive's studio at Ty Isaf.

You post photos of your studio on Instagram, tucked up under the eaves. While there, how do you work? In silence or with something to listen to? What things in life steal you away?

Life steals me away. Walks with the dog, endless organization of exhibitions and all that goes into them. Discussions with my framer, photographing and scanning work for reproduction, the masses of e-mails that underline every project, whether a book cover design, an animated film to accompany a concert, a themed exhibition, or more recently, the collaborative work with the Penfold Press to produce and publish fourteen screenprints on the theme of the poem Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. I lecture, I mentor and I occasionally teach. I curate. This idea of me in my eyrie high above the Ystwyth Valley, is a fiction, of sorts. Partially true, but mostly not. I am, in some ways, like a factory. There are many components to every outcome, and all must be managed. Right now I'm arranging a study-day as one of the events surrounding my forthcoming exhibition at MoMA Machynlleth. There are guest speakers to be contacted and briefed, travel and accommodation arrangements to be made. Six speakers and several interviewers. A pop-up bookshop to sell the books to the audience. I don't have a team of people doing this for me. I have people around me who help, but I don't pass responsibility to them. It's all a joint effort. I like collaborative endeavor, but I choose my collaborators extremely carefully. What happens at the easel or drawing board is just a part of the output. I work long hours.

To be continued...

The Soldier at Segura, by Clive Hicks-Jenkins, 2017

Clive is headed to Andalusia, where he will be attending his animation of Stravinsky's The Soldier's Tale. The "spanking" new version he's edited in association with festival director Daniel Broncano will be screened at the Música en Segura festival in Andalusia, May 16th, 2018.

An interview with artist Judith Vivell of New York City, USA

This is the studio of Judith Vivell, fine artist and new friend. She is represented by the following galleries: Ann Long Fine Art, Susan Calloway Fine Arts, Anne Neilson Fine Art and Huff Harrington Fine Art. I hope you enjoy her work and story as much as I do. To contact Judith: judithvivell@gmail.com And her website is JudithVivell.com  

Welcome, Judith! I discovered your art because of my love for birds. A flock of bluebirds nest in our courtyard and Northern harrier hawks’ mate in the reeds at our pond. The male is called the Gray Ghost because he is white and owl-like. He is a frequent subject of my poetry. How did birds become the focus of your canvases?

As an abstract painter, I was always tied to the world in some way. My earliest paintings were of very abstracted nudes. There was a very extensive series of abstractions from orchids. Each series became more representational, but still loose and very abstracted. One day I saw a photo of a flying bird in the newspaper. I cut it out and painted it on a very large canvas. I had always worked from photographs, so that was not new. After that, I began noticing pictures of birds and wishing I had better pictures of them. I took a trip to the islands and began by taking pictures with an old camera and a 35mm lens. My photos were blurry, but there was something there, and I had loved the experience of watching the birds for hours, waiting for my moment. I got a slightly larger lens for a trip to Nebraska to see the Sandhill Cranes. It was one of the most magical experiences of my life. After that, there was no stopping me. I got a huge 500 lens and began traveling all over the world taking pictures of exotic birds. Every once-in-a-while, I try to paint a series that has nothing to do with birds, but I always come back. For me, birds are a metaphor for art itself.

—That is so beautiful Judith, I have to agree.

Swan at Dawn, oil on canvas, by Judith Vivell, 48" x 60", 2017

 

How did art play a part in your childhood or youth? Tell us the trajectory of your training.

My father was an attorney and a Sunday painter. His gods were the French Impressionists and Post Impressionists. My mother had opted for art school in Paris instead of college. They both knew a lot about the 19^th Century in France and nothing about what was going on in New York in the forties. My childhood home was filled with my father’s copies of his favorite French painters. My parents were Francophiles. When I was very young, we lived in Marin County which is near San Francisco. At that time in the forties and fifties when so much was going on in New York, the San Francisco Museums were still looking back. Our house was filled with art books, and my father had books about such American movements as the Ashcan School and the realists of the thirties. But I don’t think he had even heard of Abstract Expressionism.

When I was in the first grade, I brought home a painting on newsprint done in poster paint of a clown. Both my parents were crazy for this painting and my father immediately put it in the frame that he had his law degree framed in. It happened to be the same size. From that moment on, it was just assumed that I would be an artist. I, of course, hated being told what I was going to do with my life and totally rejected the idea. I began telling everyone that I was going to be an attorney. In my family, they hadn’t gotten the memo about what women could and couldn’t do and my wanting to be an attorney seemed a mistake only because of my “great talent” but in no way because of my sex. Nevertheless, my father never abandoned his idea that I should be an artist. Years later when I was happily studying Political Science at Berkeley, he called me up and said that my sister, who was at Stanford, was going to spend a semester at the Stanford Campus in Florence and he thought it was a perfect time for me to take a semester off and go to Florence too. Well, I wasn’t going to turn THAT down. So off I went to Florence and as my smarty pants dad knew, I fell in love with art, came home to Berkeley and changed my major to Art History. The next thing that happened was that in 1965, I came to New York. I had been accepted at Columbia University to do graduate work in Art History. The New York art world of the sixties was perhaps the most exciting and innovative time in American Art. Abstract Expressionism had just made New York the place to be and now young artists were beginning to experiment with a panoply of other forms. I was enthralled by actually seeing the huge canvases I had only seen in slides in Art History classes before. I had been painting for “fun” that last few years, but now I was inspired. I wanted to know and do everything. After the first year at Columbia, I took a leave of absence and went downtown to The Art Students’ League. I stayed there, all day, every day for three years. I taught English As a Second Language at a night school to support myself. Once again, my father interceded. He called me from San Francisco to tell me that he thought I should get a Master’s Degree in painting. The following year I enrolled at Hunter College where I earned the MA in painting in 1971. That year I had my first Solo show at a little gallery in Soho called Flats Fixed. I also got a San Francisco dealer for silk screens I was doing, and Pace Editions in New York was handling my work.

 

Judith Vivell at home in her Soho, New York City studio.

What is it about art that compels you?

What a great question! I will try to answer by saying that I couldn’t even imagine a life where I was not allowed to express myself, to make something monumental and as perfectly beautiful as I can make it. I don’t understand why every single person is not an artist. It is or can be a way of getting closer to a place that is outside the ego. When you are in “the flow” you experience a lack of fear and something like the consciousness of pure spirit. Glad to see that George Bush is painting. I wish Trump would take up painting and give up politics.

—I'm smiling with you after that one.

Johns and I collaborate on furntiure design since 2008. We talked briefly about how your husband is your studio manager. You mentioned having a great time together! Would you like to share an anecdote of your artistic life at an impressive seventy-seven years old with your husband who is eighty-two...

My husband’s background is in business. When he retired at 65 he went back to graduate school to study architectural restoration. He loves art and architecture. When we got together, he knew nothing about contemporary art and was fascinated with the business side of the art world. He now sees that it is much harder than any other business he has been part of. He also knows a lot about art. He has what we call an “eye”.

When I saw that my husband had free time, I carefully and judiciously seduced him into helping me do the parts of the art business that I didn’t like and didn’t want to spend time on. He was interested in all that if you can imagine! He actually likes business! What a weirdo! I am so grateful to have him. In the beginning, I noticed that he would express a liking for one painting or another, and those were the paintings that SOLD. I began calling him “The Voice of the People”, and gradually began to ask him into my studio after I thought I had finished a painting, just to see what he would say. That was a long time ago. Now I would not think of a painting as “finished” without Gordon’s imprimatur. Some people think of varnishing as the last step in a painting. I think of calling Gordon in as my last step.

 

Cockatoo with a Red Branch, oil on canvas, by Judith Vivell, 48" x 36", 2017

What was your favorite commission?

My favorite commission was a Snowy Owl for a lovely couple who live in a gorgeous house in New Jersey. They have wonderful taste in general and the Owl looks totally perfect and at home over their fireplace. I think that the way the commission looks in its assigned place is as important to me as the painting by itself. It is a very different thing from just painting a beautiful piece and not really knowing where it will end up.

What advice do you have for aspiring young female artists?

The Art world is much better today for young women compared to when I was coming up. But the #MeToo movement has shown us how far away we are from equal. When I was young and scared of starving as an artist, I asked my mother if she thought I should be an artist. She said, “If you have a choice, the answer is no. If you don’t have a choice the answer is yes.”

Once you have decided that there is no choice; that being an artist is the only thing that will make you happy, then be very business-like about it. The business side of being an artist takes up at least 50% of your time. But it’s better than spending 100% of your time doing something you don’t want to do.

 

Great Egret in Mating Plumage, oil on canvas, by Judith Vivell, 48" x 36", 2017 

Is there an artist who has significantly impacted your own work or education?

I studied with many great teachers. Two of my favorites were Morris Kantor and Ray Parker. All my teachers were abstract painters. As a representational artist, I would have to say that I am self- taught. But my work is informed by the experience of being an abstractionist—very much so. If you ask about mentoring, though, which was rare for women in my day, I would have to give my father the credit. He was my first and, really, my only mentor.

What are you reading right now? Who are your favorite authors?

At this moment, I am reading, “A Sense of an Ending," by Julian Barnes. I think naming a favorite author would be like having a favorite child. Each one appeals to me in a different way, and each must be approached differently. But something inside of me rejects choosing a favorite.

Roseate with Wasps Nest, oil on canvas, by Judith Vivell, 48" x 60", 2017

How would you describe the atmosphere of your studio space? Johns’ uncle, American Abstract Expressionist painter, William G. Congdon, had a ritual routine of lunch followed by classical music and a glass of wine in the studio while he painted. I love the picture that paints.

I have continuously had my own studio space either inside or outside my living quarters since my time at the Art Students’ League. I rented my first studio from a drug dealer who was doing a stint in jail. That was my favorite studio of all time. My heart was broken when he got out of jail early and wanted his space back. He was a pretty scary dude, so I didn’t argue with him, even though there were several months left on my lease. I have had my present studio for about 37 years. It is a room that takes up about a third of my Soho loft. It is very clean and organized. I spend quite a bit of time on sweeping and mopping and straightening up. I paint on a wall that is marked with the edges of many paintings. I paint the wall over about every two years. The floor is covered with paint but very clean. There are racks with many paintings in them and map drawers with drawings. There are several cabinets filled with art supplies. On the top of each cabinet, there are objects that I have collected for still life. There are many vases and teapots and baskets and shells. And there is a beloved deer head that I found in a shop on an island in Maine. In the back of the studio, I have an office. It is a personal space filled with pictures of and by my children and grandchildren. Each day before work, I meditate sitting in a chair in this space. I often listen to books on tape as I work.

You raised a family and pursued your art. How did you balance it all?

I have no idea how I did it. When I look back it seems impossible. One day at a time, I guess.

— Judith, you remind me of a fairy queen from the mystical French forest of Brocéliande, with its connections to Arthurian Romance. Noted for its unusual weather, ambiguous location and magic... if any creature belongs there it is the bird first. In truth, people equate the legend with the modern day forest of Paimpont. Maybe we should go there one day. Thank you, dear Judith, for sharing your intimate world!

Who would you invite to dinner if time was no obstacle and you could visit the past? This is a question I ask myself altogether too much! Choose four people if you like...

Well, I would prefer just a lunch with only one of these people at a time, because I would have so many questions and I wouldn't want the time to be taken up with small talk the way it happens at a lot of dinners. I would also want to know that they had to tell me the truth. Otherwise, it would be a waste of time.    I would dearly love to have a few hours with my mother.  I did interview her on tape before she died and I recently found the tape and gave it to my daughter, but there are so many things I would ask her now that I didn't know to ask her then.  I was in my thirties when she died--it would be so different now.  I would love to interview Jesus of Nazareth and find out what he thinks of the religions that have been founded on his teachings.  I would love to be able to speak to my grandchildren when each of them is about forty.  It would be such fun to see how they turned out, what they had done with their lives, what they thought about the world at that time.  

I find your family history fascinating and so you kindly have allowed me to share it with readers. We are the compilation of all the souls that have preceded us...

Here is what I know about my origins. I was born in California 77 years ago.  My mother's family were Criollos from Spain who had a ranch in the area now called San Juan Capistrano at the time that Mexico became independent from Spain.  Her great-grandmother had been one of 12 daughters and they married Europeans who came to California before and during the gold rush.  My Great Grandmother's maiden name was Seivers, as her mother had married a German businessman. She married a Swiss who came to California and opened the Girard Piano Company in Oakland, my grandmother married another businessman named Anderson who came from Sweden.  So you can see that the Spanish blood was diluted.  But I remember that my uncle whose name was Frank Girard, and who was a surgeon, had a palomino pony and was part of a group of Criollos whose families were the original settlers.  They all marched in California Day parades riding their palominos and dressed in their "Grandee" costumes.  So no matter how diluted the blood or European the names, they still considered themselves Criollos and were proud of their Spanish heritage.  I think that is all pretty much in the past now.  I haven't lived in California since I left at 22.  So I really am not in the know on those things.  My father came from an Alsatian family from Baden in Germany.  His grandfather who was evidently a giant and a very good swimmer, swam across the Rhine to escape being inducted into the Prussian army during the Franco-Prussian War.  Vivell is almost French, but actually German--very much Alsatian.  My father's mother was Irish. So I am very much a mutt. 

 Thank you, Jude.

An interview with Italian artist Francesco Galmarini

Francesco Galmarini lives in Luino, Italy. Thank you, Francesco, for sharing your work in charcoal and oils. He may be reached at f.galmarini.art@gmail.com

The Darkness Inside - self-portrait

 

You teach math and physics. Many people would like to find the dedication to pursue a new field beyond their careers but few do so. How do you balance your life? What is the greatest challenge?

I don’t blame them; it’s often not the lack of dedication but probably the fear of the unknown. That’s especially true when it comes to the art field, which is notoriously not the best path to follow if your aim is to obtain financial stability. That’s why the best option is to balance the two things, your main source of income and your true passion, which is essentially your job. As Van Gogh said, “Your profession is not what brings home your weekly paycheck, your profession is what you're put here on earth to do, with such passion and such intensity that it becomes spiritual in calling.” His words are maybe a bit too passionate, but the concept is valid. I have no problem balancing my life since my job is relatively quiet. I work mostly as a private teacher so I can schedule my day as I choose.  I am self-taught in most of what I know and in most aspects of my life. If anything, art is not currently receiving enough attention.

What about art compels you?

I use drawing and painting as an outlet for my emotions. As someone with Asperger Syndrome, which is a mild form of autism (also called high- functioning), it can be hard to find the words to express what I’m feeling. I love images because of their strength and the way they say so much as soon as you see them. On top of that art is often cathartic, and can help you overcome difficult emotions. That’s the reason why, for example, Munch used to paint several versions of the same painting.

Daydreaming by Francesco Galmarini

Are any of your relatives also artistic? Or self-taught? Were you drawn to art as a child?

My father used to paint in his youth, but he was not very passionate about it. I’ve always loved art, and as a child I remember I was very gifted at drawing but then I stopped and I don’t even know why. I used to draw something occasionally, maybe once every few years, but it has only been since 2015 that I started drawing seriously.

You also study languages. Is this from a love of travel?

I don’t consider myself passionate about languages. I only study languages I like, because of their sound, their grammar, and their cultural background. I don’t like to travel much, generally speaking, but I love Nordic countries, their culture, and their nature. Among the languages I have studied, or investigated, Icelandic is definitely my favorite; although Finnish, which I’m currently struggling to learn, has a very beautiful sound.

Desolation by Francesco Galmarini

Which writer has influenced you the most?

I’m not really an avid reader, so to say. I read mostly historical books (I love history too), but if I had to name a writer it would be George Orwell. I also have great admiration and respect for Bertrand Russell and his work.

If an artist is innately an aesthete–as I believe–what environment, be it a place or realm in nature, resonates with you most deeply?

The north. Absolutely. I love the snow. When I look out of the window and see everything painted in white, it makes me feel better and relaxed.

What historical period are you dedicated to in art if any?

I love traditional art, but there’s not a specific period I’m dedicated to. I don’t really like conceptual art, or at least most of it. When you can’t tell the difference between art and trash I think we have crossed the line. But this is not the place to talk about that, or this answer will probably never come to an end.

Loneliness by Francesco Galmarini

In what direction would you like your art to grow, or are you content with your current focus?

I’m only partially content with it. My main goal is to transmit emotion. I believe that’s what art should aim to achieve. I’m trying to move away from realism towards a more expressionistic style. Sadly my extreme perfectionism is playing against that.

What artist’s life resonates with you?

I can feel a strong connection with Edvard Munch, my favorite painter; I totally agree with his vision of what art should be. For the most part, I can even say I share his vision of life, and I’m not saying this in a positive way. While my childhood wasn’t as sorrowful as his, I’ve had the same painful experiences with relationships. Another artist I admire is Van Gogh for the passion he could express in his paintings. Yes, that’s something I would like to achieve.

How does the world feel different in the silence of working your art?

It doesn’t feel different but I can detach my mind from the world, which is a good thing. It’s not that I don’t like it, it’s quite the opposite actually, but I sometimes feel like I was born in the wrong era. There’s no appreciation for art anymore, luckily that’s not always the case.

Is there something else about your work you’d like to share?

I never know how to answer questions like this one. But there is something I’d like to add, even though is not strictly related to my personal work. Nowadays it’s really hard, at least in Italy, for artists to make a living out of their work, and that’s really sad if you think about it. Modern society doesn’t encourage art production since it’s not seen as “necessary” and figurative art is not even taught in schools anymore. This has to change if we don’t want art to die altogether.

Thank you, Francesco.