Saturday, October 18, 2014


Daniel Schwartz's illustrations were looser and more exploratory than the work of many of his peers.  Yet, his sketches reveal a classically trained artist with all the technical skill to create tight, representational pictures. 


This should not be surprising.  Often the artists who understand anatomy, perspective, light and shadow, etc. are the ones best equipped to make good use of abstraction.

I like the sensitivity of Schwartz's pencil sketches:

But he also knows how to make good use of strong, broad lines:

Schwartz's pencil sketches were often left visible in his finished illustrations and contributed important effects:

Illustration from Life Magazine story on the My Lai massacre, 1971

Thursday, October 16, 2014


Daniel Schwartz's illustrations were confined by the deadlines and space limitations of his commercial clients, but he hungered to do something more ambitious.  So he resolved:
Focus on the masterwork. Do it on a large scale.  Use your skills, drawing, composition, color to say something universal, timeless, powerful.  This had always been in the back of my mind.  Then one day in 1969, watching a crowd of joggers across the street  I thought I might attempt a large painting based on this resolute, determined group of men.   
He began a series of studies which, 16 years later, culminated in a painting entitled, "Portrait of the Artist, Running," a complex masterpiece 78" x 100".

During those 16 years, the painting went through several major transformations, ultimately evolving into something very different from Schwartz's original intent.  He began to record the painting's various incarnations, keeping track of how he nursed the ideas, the emotions, the composition, the abstract shapes, the flat patterns and the color match ups as he and his painting changed.  He ultimately published them in an excellent  book, Portrait of the Artist, Running.


The picture started out with muscular, purposeful men striding forward in unity. Later drafts turned into a more chaotic mob in the street accompanied by wild dogs.  After several interesting turns, Schwartz painted himself in the midst of a herd of purposeful men:
They are all muscular, their muscularity paramount, except for the central figure who is more fragile, hesitant.  He is trying to break away from the herd of onrushing men.  His face is in the shadow but the figure and the shadowy face are mine.  I have placed myself in an alienated context, set apart from my fellow men who are engaged in a fierce race for a goal I will not share... Wild dogs harass us as wild dogs would harass a herd of harmless animals until finally cutting out the weakest member for killing and devouring.  One of the dogs stands like a man to suggest its victory over us.

 I found Schwartz's book to be a smart, eloquent, illuminating journey through the mind of an excellent artist as he constructs a major piece.  With no illustrator's deadline,  Schwartz had no excuse for falling short of perfect.
By 1974 I had painted over and over it so many times that the original start had been completely obliterated....  Nothing satisfied.  The background wouldn't do.  The dogs wouldn't do.  The painting had become a weight on my shoulders.... It wasn't what it could be, what it should have been from the start.... I was fifty years old.  I gave no thought to what might become of this huge canvas.  I worked alone.  I had no prospects for the painting's exhibition or sale.  I had no deadline to work against as I always did as an illustrator.

When I visited Schwartz in his studio it was a treat to see his finished magnum opus, as big as a wall, where I could appreciate its subtleties and special touches.

 Schwartz's description of his painting process reminded me of the line by Dryden,  "He who would search for pearls, must dive below."

Monday, October 13, 2014


Daniel Schwartz is a gifted painter who worked as an illustrator in the days when illustration was more accepting of gifted painters.

Trained as a gallery painter and fine artist, Schwartz brought a distinctive class and dignity to his illustrations.  His talent was recognized early and he was awarded scholarships to the Arts Students League and the Rhode Island School of Design.  He also won several awards for his paintings and enjoyed successful one man shows at the Davis, Hirschl & Adler, Maxwell and Babcock galleries in New York.  His work was spread among the NY intellectual and arts communities, in the collections of figures such as Leonard Bernstein, William Styron, Gay Talese, William Paley and Daniel Selznick.


At the same time he was an award winning illustrator for top periodicals such as Esquire, Fortune and Playboy.

Today Schwartz remains a prolific artist who paints actively in his Manhattan studio.  Recently I had the great pleasure of spending an afternoon with him, looking at his originals and talking about his work.  I came away with enough material for a dozen posts.  In the days ahead I will be sharing some of the sketches, insights and original images I encountered during that rewarding visit.


Tuesday, September 30, 2014


Once upon a time, before art teachers employed video or Photoshop to demonstrate the progress of a drawing, the Famous Artists School helped popularize "step by step" instruction:

Original drawings by Harold von Schmidt, "How to Draw a Dog"

Even today, the Famous Artists School training materials remain a marvelous record of the working methods of some of the country's top artists. 

Von Schmidt, an excellent draftsman, is underrated today

Illustrator Seymour Chwast couldn't draw nearly as well as Harold von Schmidt but he was a smart guy who recognized that by reversing von Schmidt's steps he could create a clever joke about deconstruction and reductionism:

Similarly, the following series from Guy Billout was focused more on conceptual stages than the steps necessary to  create a likeness:

In the next example, Chwast offers an utterly delightful perspective on the progress of a drawing:

Many a truth is said in jest.  For Chwast, the lightning bolt of inspiration 
was more important than years of studying the craft of drawing.

In this final example,  Richard Thompson speeds up and slows down time, introduces the childhood game "Chutes and Ladders," and shifts back and forth between alternative realities: 

Video and Photoshop have become superior methods for demonstrating the kind of steps that Harold von Schmidt was teaching, but note how static drawings still permit more freedom and creativity when it comes to demonstrating conceptual steps.

For von Schmidt, the space between drawings only reflects elapsed time.  For artists such as Thompson and Chwast it reflects not only elapsed time but also movement between worlds or perspectives.  It allows the artists to play ontological and surrealistic games which, while not as linear, are every bit as educational and truthful. 

Thursday, September 18, 2014


Our society encourages artists to exaggerate their eccentricities.  Musicians, writers and graphic artists compete to distinguish themselves by dressing and behaving outlandishly.  A nice couple of bucks can be made from appearing as kinky and outrageous as possible.

Such poseurs are different from genuine eccentrics-- the ones who risk everything because they just can't help what they are.  The difference can be seen in the authenticity of their work.

Wanda Gag (1893-1946) the illustrator and author of important children's books, was one of the true eccentrics in American illustration.


The strong willed daughter of a Bohemian artist, Gag grew up in a remote corner of rural Minnesota.  Her  parents died when she was young, leaving her impoverished and responsible for her six younger siblings.  She fought to keep her family together, rejecting efforts to divide the children into foster homes.

Relying on just $8 per month from the county, Wanda scratched for pennies.  She sold little knicknacks and pictures to feed her young siblings.  She trained in St. Paul to become a professional illustrator but found the lessons too confining:
I cannot bear to think of following in the footsteps of others.  And this is what they are teaching us to do here in Illustration.  We are doing covers for the Saturday Evening Post, and everyone has a Leyendecker cover at their side which they consult and worship while working at their own sketch.
Wanda was intent on developing her own style, one that combined art and real life, so after providing for her siblings Wanda left Minnesota in 1917 to become an artist in New York City.  An early feminist and suffragist, Wanda was politically radical and artistically uncompromising.  She practiced "free love," believing that an active sex life was a wellspring for artistic creativity.  She developed a series of odd theories about nature, aesthetics and fertility. She designed and made her own clothes for an "artistic" look.

Shortly after her arrival in New York Wanda started doing illustrations for the communist newspaper, New Masses.

She began receiving steady commercial assignments but found them unfulfilling so she cut her commercial ties and rented a ramshackle home in the country (which she named Tumble Timbers). There she could work on her fine art without distraction.  (Also without heat, running water or bathrooms.  She ate food from her garden and cooked on a kerosene stove.  Her lean years in Minnesota had made her fearless about poverty.)

Wanda's drawing of Tumble Timbers

Wanda's drawing of her bed at Tumble Timbers, inscribed to her lover Carl

Her younger sister wrote a song poking fun at Wanda ("If she thinks its funny that you work for money / Don't blame her-- 'cause she's an artist!")

The stairway at Macy's


In 1928 Wanda hit it big with her first children's book, Millions of Cats, a deeply odd story about an elderly couple inundated with "millions and billions and trillions of cats."  They are ultimately saved when (spoiler alert) the cats kill each other over who is the prettiest.  The drawings and hand lettered text are in Wanda's distinctive voice, very unusual for the period.

My favorite book by Gag is her even more peculiar story, "The Funny Thing," in which a strange dragon-like "aminal" eats the dolls of little children until a weird baby faced man named Bobo (who lives in a cave) persuades the aminal to eat "jum-jills" (a food that Bobo invented from seed puddings and nut cakes) instead.  The aminal likes them because they make his tail grow longer (see illustration below, in which Jum-jills are rolled into balls and fed to him by birds).


If Wanda had any commercial sense she probably would have written sweet, condescending books for children but that was not in her DNA.   She said, "I aim to make the illustrations for children's books as much a work of art as anything I would send to an art exhibition."  Lo and behold, children recognized her authenticity so her books have remained classics for over 80 years.

With her success, Wanda was able to move from Tumble Timbers to a new home she called "All Creation" but her fortune did not change her personality.  In 1941 she confided to her diary, 
I often think, "what if my readers and various people who apparently think highly of me, what if they knew that I can feel love for more than one man at the same time, that for years there have been three men on my love-horizon, that I indulge in bizarre and esoteric love rites with my lovers! Would they, knowing this, consider me less good?"
In her extensive private diaries Wanda spoke of sex joyfully but in euphemisms, calling it "treetops" or "experiences of a non-Euclidean variety."   
Wanda with two of her lovers, Earle Humphreys and Adolph Dehn.  Apparently, her strong personality persuaded men to agree to these sharing  arrangements.
Compare Wanda's secret diaries, and the price she paid for her nature, to the easy license for today's art celebrities such as Currin or Koons.  Artists are coaxed and coddled to strive for eccentricity now.  They have become fabulously wealthy flaunting the kind of weirdness that helped keep Wanda impoverished.  
Gag's drawings can't compete with the slick production values or technical skill of today's art impresarios but I find her genuine eccentricity a far more rewarding human experience. 

Thursday, September 04, 2014



The ancient Greeks lived in a world of danger and unrest that make our own exciting headlines look tame by comparison.  They created artistic masterpieces in the midst of prolonged wars and invasions, plague, political chaos, coups, and the scheming of scoundrels.  No wonder Thucydides wrote, "You could sum up Athens by saying they were born never to live in peace and quiet."

The Greeks were forced to become warrior-poets; their ideals of beauty and virtue had to withstand almost daily bloodshed and death.  Yet they set a world standard for sophisticated, delicate beauty.   They were the first to dream there was such a thing as "perfect" beauty out there waiting to be achieved.

Which brings me to the lovely drawing on the urn above.  (Actually, the "one" drawing has two sides):

There are tugboats full of scholarship about Greek vase painting-- its evolution, its subject matter, its historical significance, its master painters, etc. .  People have strong feelings on the subject (as became obvious in the comments to last week's post about the Provensens).  I won't try to deal with that material here, but perhaps there's room to say one small and pure thing about this small and pure drawing.

There are urns with complex and violent drawings of mythological figures or wild animals. Many are cluttered with layers of decorative geometric patterns.  But personally I prefer the serenity and simplicity of this exquisite design. 


Look at what the artist did with just two colors: that black slip negative space makes the glowing abstract shape of the figure dominate, far beyond what those descriptive lines contribute.  The artist also had to unify the flat drawing with the rounded vase design, and did so with grace, restraint and confidence.

For me, this is the real heroism of Greek drawing-- not pictures of Achilles bashing his enemies.  In a violent world, the Greeks explored proportion and balance and composition looking for "ideal" beauty.  They groped their way toward the "golden ratio" and built classical archetypes for us.

The renowned scholar Herbert Read makes a respectable case that the ancient Greek synthesis of  human activity with formal beauty first introduced humanism to the world.

Tuesday, August 26, 2014


I am a big fan of the work of children's book illustrators Martin and Alice Provensen.


I especially love their beautifully designed books, The Iliad and The Odyssey and Myths and Legends.


It's difficult to imagine how  a creative team could have been any closer than the Provensens.  The two came from very similar backgrounds: both born in Chicago, Martin and Alice each moved to California when they were twelve.  There they attended high school and college, then went to work for Hollywood studios (Martin at Disney and Alice at Walter Lantz).  During World War II, they met and got married, then moved to Washington where they both held jobs supporting the war effort.  


In 1950 the Provensens purchased an abandoned farm in upstate New York, far from city life.   They moved two drawing tables into a barn and started working together, back to back.  Their excellent book, A Year at Maple Hill Farm,  describes their sweet life on the farm. Their styles blended together and for nearly 40 years  the couple worked so closely that no one could distinguish who had contributed what.  In response to persistent questions Alice simply said, “we were a true collaboration. Martin and I really were one artist.” No one ever saw their works in process.



Living and working together in one room there was very little space for privacy or egos.  The two seemed to share everything,  completing each other's thoughts and brush strokes.


Yet, I was charmed to read that there was one small part of their process that the Provensens decided to keep private from each other.  When they were just beginning to come up with an idea, they would sometimes tie a string across the room and hang a sheet or blanket between their two tables.  As Alice recalled, "Once in a while one of us may have had an idea we were just developing that we didn't want the other person to see just yet....We would string a curtain up between our desks."

Even though the barrier was purely symbolic-- a flimsy drapery that could easily be breached at any time-- it still had psychological importance.

In those first fragile moments of the creative process, when you are trying to coax an idea into existence, words and voices-- or even a second set of eyes-- might scare it off.   The premature constraints imposed by an existing vocabulary could rob the idea of its potential.  

People share all kinds of things.  You might work together all day in the studio, as nekkid as Adam and Eve in the garden of Eden, and never blush once.  But the nakedness of a new idea-- that's a little too personal, and sometimes needs to be kept concealed.