So in no particular order a poem by Warshan Shire and paintings that have had an impact on me. This is not an exhaustive list, nor are they my favorite paintings or the ones that strongly influence my art or mindscape, it's just the ones the Holy Spirit brought to my mind and emphasized over others.
Warshan Shire: what they did yesterday afternoon
they set my aunts house on fire
i cried the way women on tv do
folding at the middle
like a five pound note.
i called the boy who used to love me
trying to ‘okay’ my voice
i said hello
he said warsan, what’s wrong, what’s happened?
i’ve been praying,
and these are what my prayers look like;
dear god
i come from two countries
one is thirsty
the other is on fire
both need water.
later that night
i held an atlas in my lap
ran my fingers across the whole world
and whispered
where does it hurt?
it answered
everywhere
everywhere
everywhere.”
Ferdinand Hodler (1853-1918) was poor, talented and needed a breakthrough when he painted this self portrait. When I encountered this painting entering into my thirties, I was none of the above. But the man's frustration struck a cord inside of me.
Actually my favorite by Honoré Daumier (1808-1870) is the one with the despairing ladies walking out of an art gallery full of Venuses and men leering on Venuses, saying something like “always the same every year, but no woman looks like that”. But this man makes me laugh.
I could rave all year about the beauty of Joseph Tapiró Y Baró( 1836-1913). But the man's work speaks for his utmost love and respect for humans.
I did not know that Illya Repin (1844-1930) was trying to express an encounter of love with this one. But as a teenager this one was my PC wallpaper for the longest time, while I languished through crushes and the pains of leaving girlhood behind.
Heather Ihn Martin (1983-) is a contemporary oil and watercolor fine art artist. Her way of describing light is not how I see it visually, but actually how my mind stores the memories of day and sunlight.
Edgar Degas (1834-1917) was never my thing until suddenly last year he was. I bothered reading about his subjects and realized that the guy had a heart for the women and girls he drew, and that he actually had an opinion about the prostitution that took place in the space where higher society and art meet.
Shannon Reynolds is a contemporary artist and is still living. There is a warmth and personality to her portrait paintings of animals that strikes me as so tender towards her subjects.
So talented and yet so strange. When James Gurney (1958-) featured William FraserFraser (1856-1921) I had a breakthrough, because the guy was weird in his lifetime, his wife left him because she got enough of his weirdness and that must take guts after sticking with him through 5 kids. And his end was just as wonderfully weird, but I do get the impression that the man did what he wanted through it all. Paint to his hearts desire and vision, perfecting his craft and honing in in the subject of his love. And he stuck with it even when it was not financially viable, and his artistic output was also very very low. But the guy just did it his way and he died not knowing that one day he would be my hero. Really I have always been disappointed at my low output and general disinterest in finishing paintings in a traditional sense. Like Edgar Degas, I see the sketch as the be all end all. And it can take me years to begin and finish something. But reading about this guy has made me accept my slow output and just enjoy the process Annnd the output.
Gustave Coubert (1819-1877) is a true hero, and I do believe realism is what it is in painting today because he dared wage war against the artistic establishment of his day, and do so with talent and style. This one though is one of the more romantic of his paintings, and I like the one with the stone breaker, and the one with the funural much much better. But for some reason it is this particular painting that haunts me again and again. Maybe is the extravaganza of the artist's pose and the quiet reference of the patron, the true expression of how most artist feel at creating something. Birthing something. Bringing into existence what the audience can't conceive.
I cry when I look at Paul Cézanne's(1839-1906) later watercolor works in a way I don't cry for anything else in life. I never appreciated how he built a career deconstructing the canvas and the idea of depicting a 3 dimensional reality on a 2 dimensional surface. But then last year I was going through a growth spurt and revisited his works, and I looked and admired the paintings. Then I saw the watercolor, courtesy of James Gurney again I think. And I cried and still cry because something inside me resonate with melody, when I look at the mastery of the craft. To cut away all the noise, all the details, all the illusion and yet still create a comprehensive believable depiction of a landscape, trees, sunlight. I tear up when I look at the watercolors. Which just goes to show that we all have our sweet spot, and I should stop making fun of other artist who have artgasms at, let say Van Gogh. I don't get it, but maybe they won't get my jam.
Henri Fantin-Latour (1836-1904) seems to have suffered under his commercial success with his bouquet themed paintings. Like John Singer Sargent he got real tired of doing what paid his bills. Really tired apparently. And that is an honesty I appreciate, because has made me aware that some products of mastery are a result of occupational necessity.