EMBRACING COLLISION

This illustration by Jon Whitcomb contrasts a creamy, flawless figure with a violent, abstract background.

Similarly, this illustration by Piotr Leśniak frames a meticulous drawing with a chaotic background:

Vivian Dehning's recent "photo illustration" in the New York Times covers a photograph of a woman with a wild crayon scribble.  

Normally the elements of a picture are expected to work together, rather than clash in contumacious oppugnancy. 

There are limitless ways for artists to combine opposites so that they work together to add useful contrast:

Norman Rockwell

Austin Briggs

Hard black line contrasted with soft watercolor can often be a productive combination of extremes.

  

Note how the color is flat but the line contributes volume

Sempé uses black line sparingly in fields of pastel color

However, sometimes the two extremes just sit side by side, yelling at each other.  They aren't glued together by form, content or any of art's other epoxies.  The artist just seems to enjoy the collision.

One of my cranky friends derides this kind of contrast as "empty" because he finds it devoid of purpose.  Without a discernible expressive intent, he finds the contrast to be neither significant nor interesting.

The purpose of the random scribble in Vivian Dehning's "photo illustration," above, might be construed  as a comment on the mistreatment of women in the photograph.  This purpose, however, is hardly enough to save such a ridiculous image.  

I don't claim to be ecstatic about either the Leśniak or the Whitcomb examples.  Still I think it's worth considering the notion of "collision" as an aesthetic concept in and of itself.  Abstract expressionism proved that not all collisions require an "intent" to be interesting.

Placing realism and abstraction side by side may make an unruly mess, but there is often "intent" to be found, even in purely abstract forms.  Could placing freedom and control next to each other be viewed as a way of challenging the reason of each for being?  Could their juxtaposition  be a reminder that the realistic, controlled three dimensional portion is still, after all, just an illusion, a two dimensional fake no more trustworthy than the adjacent random mess?  Or could the collision of the two extremes be a way of dissing the hard labor of the skillful extreme?  A postmodernist attack on obsolete talents?  An attempt to blow up conventional taste?  It's worth looking for potential for artistic value, even in collisions. 

MILTON GLASER DRAWS LIKE A DESIGNER

 I love this drawing by Milton Glaser.  It's an illustration for a record by classical guitarist Linda Cohen.

Glaser was internationally renowned as a graphic designer, an intellectual and an all-around fount of creativity.  I interviewed him in his office before he died, and discovered he was still overflowing with ideas.  He's also responsible for a quote I've used several times on this blog:

There is no instrument more direct than a pencil and paper for the expression of ideas. Everything else that interferes with that direct relationship with the eyes, the mind, the arm and the hand causes a loss of fidelity.... I like the idea that this ultimate reductive simplicity is the way to elicit the most extraordinary functions of the brain.

Glaser was not, however, first and foremost a draftsman.  An observer might comment that the wings are awkward and the body is not in a natural posture.  And where the heck is that light source?

Glaser borrowed the figure from one of the slaves in Giulio Aristide Sartorio's allegorical painting, Diana of Ephesus and the slaves:  

It's not clear why Glaser chose that particular figure, since the anatomy or the skin tones or the perspective seemed of little interest to him.  His only cryptic remark at the time: "angels probably don't have behinds."

But he transformed the figure in a magical and lyrical landscape. 

What's the meaning of the falling star and the beam of light shining down on the rock cliff?

Why does that ear glow red? The whole palette is quite eerie, combining dark subtleties and vivid contrasts. 

While most of the drawing has been greatly simplified, the lateral spines on the feathers
in the wings have been individually drawn.

What does it all mean? This drawing opens a lot of questions for us but answers none.  I can't imagine how it is related to its subject record album, or how it could help sell the client's product.  What kind of instruction could the art director possibly have given to produce this result? 

I suppose the answer is the same as it has always been: when you're that good, and that strong headed, and your designs are that powerful, you can pretty much do what you want.   

WINSOR McCAY HAD AN OPINION ON TARIFFS

Today the Supreme Court listened to heated legal arguments about the tariffs recently imposed by the US.  But the arguments over tariff policy have been going on for a long time.  

Over a century ago, Winsor McCay, the creator of Little Nemo, drew the following political cartoon about the effect of tariffs:

In my view, today's political cartoonists haven't learned much from the past century.

On the other hand, neither have today's politicians. 

TAMEA versus MAISIE

Tamea, the bewitching queen of the South Sea isle of Riva, kissed Dan twice within 5 minutes of meeting him.  Maisie, on the other hand, Dan's reliable and steadfast girlfriend from America, permitted Dan to kiss her just once in twelve years.

by Dean Cornwell, from Cosmopolitan Magazine, 1923

In the story, Never The Twain Shall Meet by Peter Kyne, Dan is torn between his passion for Tamea and his loyalty to Maisie.  

In the end, Tamea makes the choice for Dan.  She loves him, but nobly sends him back to Maisie because she knows he wouldn't be happy for long with the free life on her tropical island.  He grew up in a culture of restraint, control and Christian values.  The cultures were just too different, and "never the twain shall meet." 

When Tamea rejects Dan and sends him back to Maisie, he breaks down sobbing:

At the end of of the story, we witness Dan returning to America with Maisie, but staring thoughtfully back to Riva as it disappears in the distance:

Here's the story behind the story: the illustrator Dean Cornwell married Miss Mildred Kirkham in 1918.  The couple had cultural differences of their own.  For one thing, Mildred was morally opposed to drinking alcohol.  For another, Mildred didn't enjoy traveling.  She preferred to stay close to home in NewYork city while Cornwell loved the great outdoors and exploring the American West.  Soon Cornwell was working overseas, and was known to have had romantic relationships with other women.

After Cornwell's illustrations for Never The Twain Shall Meet were published, the canvases were returned to his studio.  Cornwell revisited his painting of Dan and Maisie sailing away and decided to change the outcome.  He painted over the face of Maisie with the face of his own mistress.

In this way, art permitted Cornwell a tiny rebellion against the fate of the fictional character, Dan.

ON TOP OF THE ENCHANTED MESA

 Fans of Krazy Kat will be familiar with the "Enchanted Mesa," the mystical cliff in the remote desert.  No human ever sees the top, but it is a place where magic occurs.  For example, it is where babies come from. 

Fans of the illustrator Harold Von Schmidt will be familiar with his own treatment of the Enchanted Mesa, an actual place in New Mexico:   

from Von Schmidt's masterful illustrations for the book, Death Comes For The Archbishop (1927)

It's my bias that when dealing with mystical subjects, line is a superior medium because it keeps a respectful distance from the magic.  It is less literal than realistic painting, and less presumptuous in its response to awe.  Drawing, by its nature, acknowledges its limitations, yet those limits leave more room for human supposition. 

And as the Von Schmidt drawing demonstrates, all of this can be done without losing the power of the original subject.

ELIZABETH SHIPPEN GREEN ON THE BRINK

 In 1902, this is how Elizabeth Shippen Green illustrated moonlight:

Less than ten years later, her treatment of moonlight was far more accomplished:

How do we account for the great transformation of her work within a decade?

Green worked at the dawn of the 20th century, on the brink of many great changes:

• The art world was evolving: Green's beloved teacher and mentor, Howard Pyle, passed away along with other great classical illustrators such as Edwin Austin Abbey.  Green had been a member of Pyle's first art class in 1894; she recalled, "he did not so much teach me how to draw but how to interpret life."  Now a new generation was elbowing its way onto the stage.   In the decade following 1902, Picasso and Braque invented cubism; Fauvism made its debut at the Paris salon; and Marinetti introduced his "Futurist Manifesto."

• Opportunities were changing dramatically for women illustrators:  Previously, illustration had been almost exclusively a man's profession.  In 1907, Green was among the very first women admitted to the Society of Illustrators.  She earned a long term contract with Harper's Magazine doing a higher quality of illustrations. As Green's biographer Alice Carter wrote,  "The first generation of educated American women was becoming successful in a variety of careers, and their achievements were beginning to attract considerable attention."

• Color printing was undergoing a revolution:  Green began her career drawing black and white illustrations with thick outlines.  Look how her work changed as new technologies increased her powers.

Slowly, crude color was added:

Color became more accurate and subtle:

Finally, here are some details from the example I used at the start:

• Wrenching changes in Green's personal life:  The changing role of women forced difficult decisions on Green.  She had to choose between working as an artist or higher education at one of the colleges now available to women. Green, along with illustrators Violet Oakley and Jessie Wilcox Smith, stayed briefly at Bryn Mawr college where Green said she got her whole education sitting on the college lawn breathing in the knowledge left unabsorbed by the coeds. 

Most importantly, during this decade of change Green lived as one of the "red rose girls," three talented women illustrators who lived together in an intimate, loving relationship made possible by the new freedom for women.  The three had vowed never to get married, but in 1911 Green broke her vow and left the group to marry a man. Her decision was agonizing for the entire group. Green was so torn by her choice, she prolonged her engagement, on and off, for 7 years.  

Green lived on the brink of these great trends; she had to gamble, making choices before the outcome was clear.  As we've seen, these changes in art, technology, relationships, and popular taste for illustration caused her great distress but didn't stop her art from improving. 

We all live in times of change. Today we have uncertainty swirling all around us, from technological revolutions caused by AI to radical transformations in the audience for illustration.  It remains to be seen if we navigate them as well as Green.

THE MAN BEHIND J.C. COLL'S DOOR

 

There's a lot going on in J.C. Coll's little drawing of a sword fight by a stranded stage coach.

Look how knowledgeable Coll's line is!  He understands that the coach would be tilted by the natural slope of the road, not upright.  He knows how the wheel would look caked with mud.  He even understands the suspension system of the coach, and is smart enough to make the lines dissipate before the details become boring.

There are six figures interacting in this little roadside ballet, each one posed with elegance

And each face, though tiny, retains its own integrity:

Hidden away in the back, behind the door of the coach, is another swordsman, this one a buffoon who couldn't quite make it out of the coach to defend the fair maiden.  (In the shadows we can just make out his hand fumbling the sword and his feet slipping out from under him.)

If you saw this illustration in a magazine today, who would even notice the small figure behind the door? It's debatable whether a narrative this complex even needed another figure.  

My point today is that this drawing was done in a very different era for a very different kind of audience, an audience that had time to linger over subtle details and get pleasure from small, hidden elements and surprises.  An audience without a computer or television competing for its attention, an audience that was not skimming over dozens of images, often in thumbnail sized icons.  That difference has a major impact on the incentives for the artist and the reaction of the audience.