Portrait of Owenroe | Danni Dawson | 1971

Not surprisingly, Danni has gone on to great things, as you can see at her website. You should take a look at her beautiful portraits, as well as her luminous still lifes. I haven’t seen Danni since the early 70′s, I hope she won’t mind that I’ve captured one of her paintings here:

Lucia Henderson | Danni Dawson

Evolution | Stephen Springer Davis | 1980

My work sold really well at that time, and I would bring a new batch up every month or two to replenish Kathryn’s stock. I have to say I was feeling pretty good about having a successful time at a New York Gallery. I was down-right chuffed.

One day in the fall of 1980 I arrived with my portfolio of new stuff to find a much older man, maybe in his late 60′s, there to show Kathryn Markel slides of his artwork. I was just standing around with him, waiting, because she was on the phone. We chatted and I asked if I could take a look at his slides. The work was colorful abstracts, quite lovely. He told me that Mondays were his day to visit galleries and show his work. He said he had never had a show, in 40 years of trying. I was amazed – his paintings were so wonderful. No one had ever shown them? That was impossible. I was humbled. Here I was, the self-satisfied 20-something, and I’d shown my work several times already. I thought that clever and accessible as they were, my punny rubber stamp prints on paper were pretty lightweight compared tohis more serious and bold oil paintings. I was embarrassed that I’d been more successful then he after only a few years of trying.

After that encounter I started to think differently about my work, and ultimately I changed to a more serious (I guess) direction.

Fragment No. 21 | Stephen Springer Davis | 1982

I’ve often thought about that artist, and I’ve wondered if he died without ever showing his beautiful paintings to the world.

In 1985 I read an article in the New Yorker by Lawrence Weschler called Shapinsky’s Karma. The story is involved and affecting. I’ve often wondered why it’s never been made into a movie. Here’s my precis:

The author was contacted by an Indian reporter and agricultural college teacher, Akumal Ramachander, about an artist he’d met in New York called Harold Shapinsky. Mr. Weschler had no clue who this artist was, but Mr. Ramachander insisted that it was his karmic duty, his destiny, to make the world aware of the artwork of Shapinsky. His spiritual calling was not to make money from success for Mr. Shapinsky, but rather to help him because the art world needed to know this unknown artist.

While Mr. Ramachander had good karma, Shapinsky’s was not so great. He had been a contemporary of all the big names in the New York art scene in the late 40′s: Motherwell, deKooning, Rothko, Pollock, all of whom would go on to be rich and famous. In 1949 Shapinsky was living in a cold-water flat, struggling to get the money together for canvas and paint. He became seriously ill, and his brother took him out to Long Island to recover. Unfortunately, this same generous brother forgot to pay Shapinsky’s $12 rent for the apartment. As a result, the landlord cleared out the apartment and threw away several years’ worth of Shapinsky’s paintings. Only a few were recovered.

Untitled | Harold Shapinsky |1950

Shapinsky’s next setback was that, unlike the other artists in the group, he was drafted in 1949. He didn’t get out of the army till 1952. As a result, he effectively missed the boat of New York Abstract Expressionism, and was forever more out of sync with the art world. Shapinsky struggled for decades, painting in his one-room apartment shared with his wife, keeping his paintings under their bed. A chance meeting in Chicago by Mr. Ramachander with Shapinsky’s son David started him on his journey to let the world know about this man who painted “like an angel”

Against all possible odds, Mr. Ramachander kept up his spirtual quest and ultimately got Shapinsky a show at the Mayor Gallery in London, where his paintings sold for $15 to $30,000. Other big shows and notoriety followed. The world finally knew about Harold Shapinsky.

In a related story, on December 20, 2009 The New York Times had a story about a painter aged 94 who was accidentally discovered after she had painted in obscurity for six decades. It happened that in 2004 The Latin Collective in New York was putting together a show of geometric paintings by women. One of the artists pulled out of the show at the last minute, and a friend of Carmen Herrera suggested that the owner include her. The owner said “Who the hell is Carmen Herrera?” Several of Herrera’s painting were delivered to the gallery, and the owner mistakenly thought that they were the paintings of the Brazilian artist Lygia Clark. He was amazed to find instead from dates on the paintings that they were completed ten years before anyone had heard of Ms. Clark.

Shocking Pink #20 |Carmen Herrera | 1949

Collectors immediately bought up her paintings, and since then she has had her work shown in England and Germany. As her friend, the painter Tony Bechara told her,
“The bus always comes for those who wait.”

Was the man I met at the Markel Gallery Harold Shapinsky? Probably not. But I’m still humbled by his story and those of Harold Shapinsky and Carmen Herrera. These three artists painted in obscurity for years. I’m going to continue to sit at this bus stop, working on my paintings when I can.

Storm at Acadia - The Day After | Stephen Springer Davis | 2009

I was immediately reminded of the much darker storm scenes painted by Winslow Homer near his home at Prout’s Neck, Maine. I’ve always admired Homer’s seacoast paintings, especially his storm scenes: waves pounding on dark rocks under a dark sky. The scene we saw at Acadia that day seemed much cheerier but nonetheless was just as scary. The Park Service wouldn’t let visitors get too close too the sea that day because tragically, the day before several people had been pulled to their deaths into the ocean by a rogue wave.

Storm painting | Winslow Homer

Mexican sketchbook 1 | Stephen Springer Davis

The purpose of the visit was not only to vacation but it was also the first of four trips to Mexico my wife, Nina, made to see if we could figure out how to move there. This was in the year after 9/11, when both of our freelance businesses were in shambles. Moving to Mexico seemed like the only way to be able to survive financially in those very rough times. In the end we decided not to move to Mexico, despite having loved the places we visited, but I do have the only sketchbooks I’ve ever done on vacation. On other trips I am more serious about creating artwork that I would put in shows. These little paintings were only for my own enjoyment.

Mexican sketchbook 2 | Stephen Springer Davis

Mexican sketchbook 3 | Stephen Springer Davis

Sometime after our trips to Mexico I was in the Philadelphia Borders, and I tripped over Paris sketchbook by Fabrice Moireau. Since I was getting ready for a trip to Maine at the time, I was thinking about doing another journal, but with nice little watercolors and some notes about the places I went. I wanted some inspiration, and to see how other artists treated this kind of thing. I still haven’t gotten over the beauty of Moireau’s paintings of Paris scenes.

Paris sketch 1 | Fabrice Moireau | Paris sketchbook

His precise and detail-filled, but still off-handedly casual perspective drawings amaze me. It’s not only the skill of the drawings, but the fact that they seem to have been drawn without correction. And these are really complex street scenes, often with crooked old buildings and streets that don’t intersect at ninety degrees. And then the artist paints over these drawings with lush and equally confident watercolors. My analysis is that M. Moireau must do these drawings/paintings at several times the size of their reproduction. I don’t see how else he can put in all the detail. I can stare at the pages of this book endlessly, in awe. If I were to take on the paintings of this book it would take me a decade to complete them.

I also own the Loire Valley sketchbook, which is equally lovely. I should point out that these books are not written by M. Moireau, so they are not his journals. He collaborates with different writers. There are also the Provence, Garden of Paris, and New York sketchbooks. This is a prodigious body of work.

Paris sketch 2 | Fabrice Moireau | Paris sketchbook

I ‘ve been so humbled by the sketchbooks of M. Moireau that I gave up the notion of doing more complex “sketches” on vacation. His work sets a standard that I could never rise to. But I’ll continue to do my little marker drawings. That I can handle. But I’ll still pull out his books and study them agog.

In his sometime Cheap Suit Serenaders he showed himself to be a talented tenor banjo player playing songs from the early 20th century, but in creating this book he takes a different route to praise his musical heroes. He draws loving portraits of the musicians in all his cross-hatched mastery.

Memphis Minnie from R. Crumb's Heroes of Blues, Jazz and Country

Uncle Dave Macon from R. Crumb's Heroes of Blues, Jazz and Country

When I paged through “R. Crumb’sHeroes of Blues, Jazz & Country” I immediately thought of another book I have and love, “The Good Times Are Killing Me”, by the fabulous Lynda Barry. I was struck how Ms. Barry also wanted to eulogize her musical heroes in her art. The difference is that “The Good Times Are Killing Me” is a novel. Music is the unifying thread in the story of Edna, a young girl struggling to grow herself up in a typical Lynda Barry world, filled with bigotry, disappointment and betrayal, with just the occasional good news. Edna loses herself in the music of Otis Redding and girl groups, Cajun and country and gospel, and Ms. Barry’s loving portraits are the illustrations for the novel.

Otis Redding from the Good Times Are Killing Me

While Mr. Crumb’s work is immediately recognizable for its cross-hatching, here Ms. Barry’s work blends her take on outsider art, with a mix of materials, a childlike sensitivity and bright colors. I love the way the frames, as it was for Horace Pippin, are used to amplify the story of the painting. But Ms. Barry’s frames show more of an influence of Mexican punched tin folk art.

Zodico Style from the Good Times Are Killing Me

“The Good Times Are Killing Me” came out in 1988, and although “R. Crumb’s Heroes of Blues, Jazz & Country”, was published in 2006, the drawings were done in the early in the 1980′s, and I have to think that Ms. Barry saw R. Crumb’s illustrations and was influenced by them. If that’s true, then in her book she may have been paying homage a fellow music-loving comic book artist, who was paying homage to his musical heroes, by paying homage to the music she loves. Or not.

Whatever the case, as Jiminy Glick famously said, “It’s all puddin’ to me.”

Farmhouse | Stephen Springer Davis | 2009

I’ve long admired Richard Schmid, a prodigious artist who has been painting for more than 50 years. Check out the painting of the Sugar Maple that’s featured on his home page. Mr. Schmid has mastered the technique of shmooshing (that’s a technical term) paint around on the canvas in such a way as to make it look like trees or grass or water. But then amidst all this unfocused territory he’ll plop a beautifully rendered barn that looks like a photograph if you squint. But mysteriously, the parts that seem really tight are mostly painted the same way, except that he creates very crisp edges, which is the secret of creating the focus of attention.

I’ve been painting in oils for about 5 years, so it’s not surprising that I should feel that I have a way to go before I feel truly confident in the way I manipulate paint. This painting is my latest effort to channel Mr. Schmid and other painters I admire. You can see that I’ve painted the fields in a shmooshy way, implying grass or whatever. The trees and mountains are pretty shmooshy too. But for the buildings, though, I made the edges sharp and the roofs high-key so that they stand out and fulfill their place as the focus (pun intended) of attention. Mr. Schmid does his edges with a palette knife, and I’ve tried that in the past, but I haven’t been happy with the results. Here I painted the crisp roofs with a small brush loaded with wet paint. I’m pleased enough with the result to show it to you. This painting also represents the first time I’ve added animals to a painting. I tried even to make the cows loose.

Typewriter Eraser | Sculpture by Claes Oldenberg

Not long after I showed my stamps in a gallery I met someone at an opening who asked me if I’d ever heard of Donald Evans, an artist from New Jersey who painted his own postage stamps. I hadn’t, and frustratingly there was no internet for me to Google him and his artwork. It happened, though, that a book called The World of Donald Evans was published in 1980, three years after his tragic death in a fire in Amsterdam at age 31. I bought the book as soon as I learned about it, and it’s still one of my favorite possessions.

Tropidesian Quilts | Donald Evans |1972

Although I’ve never been a collector of stamps, I’ve admired them for their variety of shapes and subjects for commemoration. Evans was, I learned, a collector from an early age on, and as his work as an artist evolved he kept returning to his stamp collection for inspiration. Finally he started to create his own stamps, painting them with watercolors, and using hand-carved rubber erasers to hand-cancel the stamps.

Pesto Production Promotion | Donald Evans

This one is close to my heart because I grow basil in the summer and make a legendary pesto.

He memorialized all kinds of things that were unlikely to really be memorialized: Vegetables, quilts, short-order foods and dominoes. He made up his own countries,often derived from the names of friends. Some stamps he put together as collections; others he showed as canceled stamps on addressed envelopes or postcards. His teeny watercolors are exquisite, and his calligraphy handsome.

Postcard from Tropides Island | Donald Evans

Evans’ work is an inspiration to me still, and I’m sad that his life ended so early. I try to imagine where his work would have taken him more than thirty years on.

J. S. G. Boggs | $5000 bill

I want to write a little bit about the artist James Stephen George Boggs. I’d have to call him a conceptual artist as well as a superior draftsman. All his artwork is money and is about money. He’s an artist/philosopher.

His thoughts about money are intriguing, and for me undeniable. He calls the use of money an act of faith. We all are to believe that the piece of paper that is money is actually worth what it says on the bill. We take that on faith, and so we can buy stuff. That’s the conceit, and society depends on everybody going along with the plan. Let me insert here that I really don’t understand why if people need more money the government doesn’t just print more money. I know that’s not supposed to work, but no one has ever convinced me as to why.

Anyway, what Boggs does in his artwork is play with the notion of money and what it stands for and what you can do with it. Basically, he draws money extremely accurately, but always with a twist, then tries to buy a product or service with the bill he has drawn, using it for the face value. He doesn’t sell his artwork/money directly – the bill has to be exchanged for goods or services, and a receipt given.

J. S. G. Boggs | Five Dollar Bill

It all started when Boggs was in Chicago in 1984, having coffee and a doughnut, doodling. In the end his doodle evolved into a stylized dollar bill that his waitress asked to buy from him because she liked it so much. Boggs said no thanks, but later asked for his check, which was ninety cents. He suggested that he’d like to use his “dollar bill” to pay the check, and that he’d want his change of a dime. She was thrilled, and so was Boggs. A new world had opened for him.

J. S. G. Boggs | Tan Dollar Bill

Although Boggs showed his work in galleries, the whole adventure became to see what exchanges could be made for his Bills. His biggest successes were in Basel, Switzerland (hey, I was in a group show there in 1980!) which for him upset the notion that the Swiss are stodgy and uptight. As his attempts went on, though, a parallel world was evolving. There were collectors who had a network of informers notify them when Boggs made a successful exchange of a Bill for something. Immediately mysterious representatives would swoop in on the person holding the newly-acquired Bill, offering thousands of dollars for an original Boggs along with the receipt and change, for authenticity. As one could imagine, the person with the Boggs Bill would be amazed. Some would sell and some wouldn’t, suddenly understanding that they now owned a significant work of art.

J. S. G. Boggs | Receipt for an exchange

Boggs has tried, often unsuccessfully, to buy meals, art supplies, a ticket to the Museum of Modern Art, a six-pack of beer, and so on. When his ploy didn’t work, it was usually the case that although the person he dealt with admired the drawing of a bill, and knew that it was worth far more than what Boggs was trying to buy, he or she was just a lowly employee, not the owner or manager, and so had to take real money. Oh, those lowly employees.

Things didn’t always go perfectly for Boggs, though. He was arrested for forgery by Scotland Yard, was tried at the Old Bailey by a jury, but ultimately found not guilty. Whew. Scary.

Money for art’s sake indeed.

The Morning Paper | William McGregor Paxton | 1913

In 1979 I read a review in the New York Times of a show of the work of William McGregor Paxton at the Indianapolis Museum of Art. I’d never heard of this artist, and was blown away by the beauty of this painting, called The Morning Paper, painted in 1913. I love the quality of light in this domestic scene. The fabric is lovely. The handling of the reflections on the tray and coffee pot are masterful.

But I think was most striking for me was how influenced Paxton was by Vermeer, who remains one of my favorite painters. I see similarities here to this painting by Vermeer.

Young Woman With Water Pitcher | Vermeer | 1664/65

Here’s some more of that Vermeerian goodness from Paxton:

The Samovar | William McGregor Paxton | 1926

Maybe Paxton was impressed by this famous painting by Vermeer when he painted The Samovar:

Girl With A Red Hat | Johnannes Vermeer | 1666

I read in the catalog from the show that Paxton was influenced by Vermeer’s selective focus in his paintings, wherein the important element was painted in focus, but the rest left slightly blurred. You can see that effect here.

But then Paxton wasn’t alone in feeling Vermeer’s power. Here’s John Singer Sargent, for me the greatest of the great, doing his Vermeer thing too in a study for a portrait:

Study for a Portrait | John Singer Sargent

Vermeer was apparently not the only artist to influence Paxton strongly. If you’ve been here since the beginning, then you might have read my post about the precise drawings of Ingres. Here is a self-portrait by Paxton that certainly looks to me that he’s trying hard to be Ingres, not that there’s anything wrong with that. This is a beautiful drawing, and I have to doubt that he simply drew what he saw. No camera obscura needed, even though David Hockney might accuse him of having used one.

William McGregor Paxton | Self portrait

Even a big-time artist like Paxton, considered by the age of forty to be one of the biggest names in painting, up there with Sargent, could still try to paint or draw like his idols. There’s hope still for the rest of us.

Drypoint print | Eva Springer

My great aunt, Eva Springer, was born in Cimarron, New Mexico in the 1880′s. She earned a BA degree from Highlands University in Las Vegas, New Mexico; attended Columbia University, and then the Art Students League, where she studied with Kenneth Hayes Miller and William Foote. Later, in Paris she attended the Academies Julian, Grande Chaumiere, Sultan, and Delecluse. When she returned to America, she lived her life as an artist in New York, Washington, DC, Philadelphia and back to New Mexico.

Eva was a serious artist, showing at the Paris Salon, the London Academy, Art Institute of Chicago, the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts, among others. Her specialty later in her life was miniature watercolor portraits on ivory. These collected miniatures comprised one of the main exhibits at the Museum of New Mexico for several years, and was included in a show at the Smithsonian Institution years later. She died in 1962.

Source: Who Was Who in American Art by Peter Hastings Falk

I can’t read the title of this print, but her technique for this portrait was drypoint. This technique is in some ways not dissimilar from scratch board (see my earlier post for a mention of this medium) in that the artist is digging into the material to reveal the lines of the drawing rather than placing the lines, as with drawing. The lines of the image are scratched directly into a plate of copper or tin with a special needle in a wooden handle. Where the minuscule needle gouges the plate, rough edges are created, sort of like plowing a field. This wave-like shape is called the burr, and it’s these edges which help to hold the ink. The drypoint technique produces prints with velvety, somewhat diffuse lines.

I’ve tried this technique myself, and it’s really tough to get a satisfactory result. As you draw you have to sort of look at the plate at an angle to see what you’re drawing, because you’re scratching, not leaving a color behind, as in an ink drawing. And if you screw up, there’s little chance you’ll successfully be able to make a correction. Then add the difficulties of properly inking the plate and then making a good print. Not for whiners like me.

The effect in Eva’s print is like filming an aging starlet with Vasoline on the lens to soften the lines on the face. The final work looks rather romantic, and very beautiful.