NOEL SICKLES, ZEN MASTER

Those of you who are sick and tired of hearing how much I love the drawings of Noel Sickles are in luck, because today I'm going to talk about how much I love his paintings instead.

Sickles was one of the best natural-born draftsmen around. He earned the respect of his fellow artists for his almost supernatural ability to understand and draw what he saw.



Although Sickles is respected for his drawing, a recent excellent collection of his work reminds us that Sickles also painted with the wisdom and control of a zen master.

Zen painters believed in long, slow meditation before a brush touches the paper. Only after the artist understands the essence of the subject and reduces it to its most profound simplicity does the artist proceed to paint--quickly, decisively and with the minimum number of brush strokes. The following enso is a classic image for ink brush painters: a circle painted in a single breath, accompanied by vigorous and confident calligraphy.



I admire how Asian brush painting requires the artist to make the maximum commitment using the minimum touch. There's no room for mistakes; the hard labor of eliminating extraneous details and exploring alternative approaches is worked out in the mind of the artist rather than on the paper.

Sickles painted the following illustration when he was 60. Note the distinctive way he handled the smoke from the tires:



It probably took no more than 5 seconds for Sickles to capture that smoke by scuffing his brush across the painting. However, if he screwed up, the whole painting was ruined. (Believe it or not, o best beloved, once upon a time before photoshop enabled unlimited takeovers, artists had to make choices and were accountable for the results.)



Smoke like that doesn't take 5 seconds to paint, it takes 60 years.

Or look at this splendid cover for Life Magazine:



Sickles was an artist who had pondered elusive subjects such as clouds and mist and ocean spray, so that when it came time to depict them with a brush he was able to move quickly and decisively, and that quality transforms his paintings:



The new book about Sickles is worth buying for the drawings alone, but don't skip over the paintings.

PICTURES OF SOMEPLACE ELSE

Last week's story about Martha Sawyers reminded me that many women's magazines in those days lured readers with tales of romance on a tropical island.

 

 

Here we see an uninhibited island girl inviting a western dignitary in for a dip:

 

 Thousands of housewives in places like Kansas and Ohio turned regularly to Redbook, Cosmopolitan and similar magazines for stories of love under a tropical moon. These women never travelled overseas-- in fact, many would never travel more than a few miles from home. Their fate was to raise their children, cook, clean and manage the household. If they were lucky, they found a chance to express themselves once a week in the church choir.

 

Here we see how the tropical moon magically unleashes the inhibitions of American girls.

 

 Perhaps in another lifetime these housewives might skinny dip under a lotus scented bower while brilliantly plumed songbirds trilled soft praises to their beauty. But in this life, Redbook was as close as they would ever come. These illustrations were not really pictures of the south seas. They were pictures of someplace over the rainbow. Paradise is always located someplace other than here, someplace where there are no eye witnesses or cameras to limit our imaginations or spoil our fun. People used to believe that heaven was located on top of clouds because clouds looked glorious from the ground and no one had ever been on top to see what was up there.

 

Gustave Dore Since there were no first hand accounts of the tops of clouds, clouds became a creative platform for some of our most audacious yearnings.

 

 By the 1920s, air travel had taught us that there were no angels waiting for us on top of those clouds. Air travel also brought those tropical islands a lot closer. In fact, there hardly remains a location on earth where our romantic imaginations can take refuge from the cold eye of the camera (we can even monitor the snow falling on Mars!) And yet, there are still places a camera cannot go. Sure, there are plenty of cameras documenting the south sea islands, but the tropical paradise in women's magazines was never really a geographic location. It was a place where the weather, the mosquitoes and the emotions were all controlled by an artist's brush, not by nature. Like Gustave Dore's heaven, such locations could never be portrayed by a photographer. They exist only in the domain of the artist.

MARTHA SAWYERS (1902-1988)

If you graduated from high school in Cuero, Texas during the 1920s you could look forward to a long career working at one of the local turkey farms. Martha Sawyers sized up the situation and decided instead to run for her life.

She packed a bag and made her way to New York City where she took classes at the Art Students League and supported herself doing theatrical illustrations. But Sawyers wasn't done running.

Late at night in her small apartment she read stories about the exotic islands of the south Pacific and resolved to see them with her own eyes. She saved enough money to book passage on a slow Dutch freighter headed for the south seas. The ship steamed around the Cape of Good Hope into the Indian Ocean, and with each new port Sawyers became more entranced by the sounds and colors and cultures. When the freighter arrived at the island of Bali, she decided to stay. She quit the ship and rented a small place on the beach looking out across the Straits of Bali.

The first nights alone were terribly creepy. The surf booms in like great thunder claps but in between each roar of the waves I could imagine I heard all sorts of things. One night a monkey broke in and swung on the support of my mosquito bar over the bed, gibbering at me all night long.

Looking back, Sawyers laughed that she had no idea what she was getting into. "I guess I was a ninny, to tell the truth." She got sunstroke. She had to dose herself with quinine to avoid malaria. But her experiences in the south seas set fire to her art. Sawyers said that living among the natives

taught me the value of honesty in my type of work. When you stand and sweat-- yes, sweat-- for a whole morning trying to get the right reproduction of a girl's golden skin and amber eyes it's good for you.

Sawyers later described her fateful decision as "the turning point in my artistic career. The nights when I trudged out into the coconut palm groves to see the natives dance were worth it alone."



The pictures she created in the south sea islands were highly successful back in the United States. She exhibited a series of 30 portraits of Balinese artists in a NY gallery where they were seen by the art director for Colliers. She soon became a regular illustrator of Asian subjects for Colliers, as well as for Liberty and McCall's.





Sawyers had some close calls after World War II broke out in the Pacific. She endured the Japanese invasion of Peiping. Outraged by the impact of war on the people and cultures she loved, she created posters for Chinese war relief and became a war correspondent for Colliers.





After the war, she continued traveling around the world, and worked in Penang, Singapore, Sumatra,Tokyo, Istanbul, Java, Hong Kong, Shanghai, China, Indonesia, India, Nepal and Mexico.



Sawyers married illustrator Bill Reusswig and for a while even thought about retiring, but said "before six months were up I was so bored I could have wept." Taking her husband in tow, Sawyers went off on another adventure illustrating books about the far east. She wrote of one of their trips:

From the plains of India at Patna we flew in a war-weary C-47 northward over some of the highest mountains in the world, then dropped into the valley of Katmandu, which is only 4,500 feet above sea level. Timing and luck gave us spring in our Shangri-la.

Sawyers' long and exciting artistic career ended quietly in a little home in the Connecticut countryside.

I am amazed that virtually nothing has been written about the life of Martha Sawyers. I only learned the stories I am sharing here by sitting at the feet of Walt Reed at Illustration House. Each year the echo of her bold adventure grows fainter.

ONE LOVELY DRAWING, part 22

In this drawing, the great Saul Steinberg captures different lives in their journey from birth (A) to the end (B).



It's hard to imagine a simpler reduction of biographies to plastic form. I suspect you know some of these people. To understand the discipline that line imposes, you might try distilling your own life, or your own relationships, this way.

Philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein once wrote,

What can't be said can't be said and can't be whistled either.

But as Steinberg repeatedly reminds us, sometimes it can be drawn.

THE TAIL ON THE DRAWING

I'm sure there's a technical name for those squiggly black lines that artists put in the background to complete a picture.

Frank Godwin

Stan Drake

 

Frank Frazetta and Al Williamson

Unfortunately, I have no idea what they're called. More importantly, what rules govern their use? How does the artist know what shape to make them? How large or small should they be? What kind of lines work best in a particular situation?


Feliks Topolski

The great William Oberhardt (below) explained the rules about as well as they can be explained: "I follow only my feeling of harmony."

William Oberhardt

It's fun to watch the most tightly controlled, "realistic" artists use totally abstract splotches in order to round out a picture.

John Cullen Murphy

Al Williamson

I often think artists use this device the same way many animals use a tail. A tail provides counterweight and balance for animals, enabling them to walk along tree branches or make sharp turns at high speeds. It keeps the animal stabilized and on target. Similarly, once an artist has completed the primary subject of a drawing, he or she sizes it up and often adds whatever abstract shape or weight is necessary to keep the picture in balance. When the artist finds that the demands of content and realism have tugged a picture away from a good design, those little black squiggles often restore what Oberhardt called "harmony."

Plus, a tail often serves another function: when a dog (or an artist) is happy or proud, a tail is something to wag.

THE SECRET LISTENER

The last king of the Ashanti empire, Assantehene Agyeman Prempeh, was surrounded by victorious British troops clamoring for him to come out of his palace and surrender. The gods had abandoned Prempeh and all hope was gone. But before he went out to face his conquerors, he commissioned one last work of art.

Colonel Baden-Powell described the surrender in his memoir of the African military campaign. When Prempeh emerged, the soldiers commanded the defeated king to grovel before them:

It was a blow to the Ashanti pride and prestige such as they had never suffered before. Then came the demand for payment of the indemnity for the war.... The king could produce about a twentieth part of what had been promised. Accordingly, he was informed that he, together with his mother and chiefs, would now be held as prisoners, and deported to the Gold Coast.

Prempeh was marched off to jail. Behind him, soldiers plundered his palace and burned down the sacred Burial-Place of the Kings of Ashanti.

In those last days before Prempeh surrendered, he ordered his royal artists to prepare a glorious tunic for him to wear at the surrender ceremony. They worked long and hard to make a "regal robe of mourning" approximately 7 feet by 10 feet, covered with graphic symbols illustrating the culture and history of his people.

The cloak was organized in a series of squares, with ideograms depicting the legends, proverbs and histories of the Ashanti.





For example, the following design symbolizes the king encircled and protected by ancestors, warriors, and helpful spirits who support his reign:

This next symbol, called "hen's feet," relates to the Ashanti saying that "a hen treads upon its chicks but does not kill them," meaning that the powerful king stands on his people in a gentle, protective way.

Another symbol, the ram's horn, depicts strength but also corresponds to the proverb, "when a ram is brave, its courage comes from its heart and not its horns."

The soldiers were clueless about the meaning of these symbols or the significance of the cloak. However, one of them took a fancy to it and "obtained possession" of it. The king watched through jail bars as his conquerors walked away with the legacy of his people.


What in the world was Prempeh thinking? The beauty of his cloak couldn't protect his people. Why did he go through the trouble of creating art whose message wouldn't be understood? And why put one more precious thing in the hands of his enemies to steal or destroy?


One obvious answer is that people sometimes reach out to art when they have nothing else left. In moments of ineffable sorrow, when our five senses can't piece together the world in a way that is bearable, art sometimes helps us bridge the gap. This kind of art might fortify Prempeh even if his enemies didn't understand its meaning.


But I suspect there was even more involved. Friedrich Schlegel once wrote,

Through all the noise of life's multi-coloured dream,
One song sings to the secret listener.

It seems to me that a lot of art is created like a message in a bottle. We hope it will someday find its way to a secret listener who understands us. The Ashanti empire, with its rich cultural tradition, would end when Prempeh surrendered that day. It was quite possible that Prempeh's cloak would be carelessly destroyed by infidels. But if the cloak survived, there was a chance it might someday come to the attention of some secret listener, and they would know the Ashanti for what they were, and maybe even take pity for something that once was, but is no more.


Every day you and I walk unknowingly on multiple layers of such sadness-- desperate songs from previous generations of singers who never found a listener. But in Prempeh's case, his gamble paid off. After many years, his cloak was discovered and rescued. Now it is in the inventory of the Smithsonian Institution in Washington.

LIGHT THROUGH PLASTIC RAINCOATS

The great French impressionists did not have plastic raincoats, so when Monet or Renoir wanted to study the reflections of light on translucent surfaces, they had to visit La Grenouillere, a local riverside spot, and paint the surface of the water.

By the 1950s, plastic had been invented and clear plastic raincoats became a fashion trend. Many illustrators were drawn to the challenge of capturing light reflecting on this new, translucent material:

Austin Briggs


Al Parker


Robert Fawcett

Monet brilliantly captured the essence of light on water by using bold daubs of fresh paint, rather than painstakingly blending and smoothing the colors.

Briggs brilliantly captured the essence of light on plastic using the same bold approach.

Briggs and Monet each realized that carefully blending with smooth brush strokes would have stripped the painting of its vitality without improving its accuracy. You have to be very, very good to get away with painting this loosely.

One other point about the illustrators who chose to paint translucent raincoats when it would have been far easier to paint a nice wool overcoat: Artists who produce art in exchange for food and shelter always develop tricks to be more efficient, save time, and (most of all) conceal any gaps or shortcomings in their skills. For example, artists who are not good at drawing hands tend to draw people holding their hands behind their backs. Artists who have trouble with perspective tend to draw pictures with a narrow depth of field. And of course, heavy shadows have long been a favorite technique for concealing a multitude of artistic weaknesses.

So I have special admiration for artists who, while working under a deadline, look for tough and interesting new artistic challenges. The centerpiece of the Al Parker illustration above is clearly the plastic raincoat. The same with the Austin Briggs illustration. These were not commercial choices, they were aesthetic decisions motivated by the same artistic ambition, pride and curiosity about the world that motivated Monet.

ARTISTS IN LOVE, part 15

In 1886, Camille Claudel dictated a contract for her lover to sign. Claudel was only a young art student but her lover, the great sculptor Rodin, obediently wrote down every word:

In the future starting from this day of October 12, 1886, I will have as my Student only Mademoiselle Camille Claudel, who will be my sole protege.... I will accept no other students to avoid producing, by chance, rival talents, although I suppose that such naturally gifted artists occur very rarely.... Under no excuse will I ever go to visit Madame X again, to whom I will no longer teach sculpture. After the exhibition in May we will leave for Italy, remaining there at least six months together in indissoluble union after which Mademoiselle Camille will be my wife.
-- A. Rodin

Camille's contract doesn't specify what Rodin received in exchange, but his letters made it pretty darn clear:

I only had to meet you for everything to take on unknown life, for my gray existence to flare up in a bonfire. Thank you, for its to you that I owe the entire measure of heaven that I’ve had in this life.… My dearest, down on both knees I embrace your fair body.

Rodin met Camille when he was 42 and living with his long term companion, Rose Beuret. Rose was a seamstress who shared none of his friends or interests, but she took care of his daily needs and provided him with order and stability.

Camille took a job as Rodin's apprentice but critics agree she was so talented that she soon became a major influence on his art. The two worked side by side, creating beautiful and sensuous objects:




When the time was right, Camille disrobed for Rodin. Her nude form became the inspiration for some of his greatest works of art.


Rodin soon became a captive of his love for Camille. He followed her around, begging her to see him:

My savage sweetheart, Yesterday evening I scoured our usual places (for hours) without finding you. How sweet death would be!... I can’t take it any longer. I can’t go another day without seeing you.... I love you furiously. Rest assured dear Camille, that I have no liking for any other woman, that my entire soul belongs to you.

For years Rodin and Camille continued their partnership commingling art and love.

Statue by Camille

Eventually, the story of Camille and Rodin spiraled to a tragic end. He began to withdraw from the intense demands of their relationship, preferring the calm companionship of his "gray existence" with Rose. Camille became despondent, making angry sculptures about abandonment.


Before long Camille sank into mental illness, screaming in the streets that Rodin was trying to kill her and steal her ideas. She was placed in an asylum where she spent the rest of her life while Rodin married the talentless Rose and became wildly successful. His lack of passion for Rose did not seem to hinder his ability to make passionate art.




The fulgurous combination of Rodin and Camille emitted some illuminating sparks for us:

Rodin was better at creating art about love, but Camille was better at loving. She followed her passion for Rodin right over a cliff, while the more cowardly Rodin accompanied her only as far as the edge, then backed away.

If one thing is certain from the long history of art, it's that you can't make art and make love at the same time (or, in the words of Robert Coane, "you can't drool and draw.") Every artist who has tried to combine the two (and which artist over 18 has not?) ends up with artistic mush. Love requires acceptance and commitment while art requires discrimination and challenge. As much as we yearn to merge art and love, it seems that the price of great art remains detachment. Poet Peter Viereck wrote,

Art, being bartender, is never drunk
And magic that believes itself must die

Perhaps the separation between art and experience is the source of the very ache that leads to art.