President Obama, Oil on Canvas, 12" by 16", 2009
A Word on Portraits
The human portrait engages us in looking at our most easily identifiable icon, our head with its recognizable features. No other part of our anatomy has been so well documented throughout the history of visual representation. Whether a marble bust, a watercolor sketch, or a digital snapshot of a loved one, each serves to satisfy a fundamentally human need to record the uniqueness of our faces and to place us in a moment in time. We often hope to reveal our status or wannabe status by having our portrait painted by a notable contemporary artist. We like to be memorialized within the time frame in which we live, wearing appropriate clothing, even holding favorite items to convey our tastes or occupations. Books, flowers, fans, tiny dogs, guns, or cell phones will do.
Artists have also portrayed themselves as well as others. What a revealing and substantial record of self portraits Rembrandt, Goya and Van Gogh have given us. With the self portrait, an artist can afford to be critical as well as complimentary. After all, he and his patron are on quite similar footing regarding matters of taste.
It is said of the human head that no other subject has presented more technical problems to the artist. It is a complex arrangement of shapes and overlapping planes, granted. Yet, the problems have not deterred artists from returning time and again to the study of this remarkably unique human feature.
For certain artists, the problems presented often have had more to do with the requirements of the sitter. We could generally agree that a fair likeness of the person being portrayed in a portrait is a general expectation. Otherwise, why not paint our hands or feet? Consider that forensic science has meanwhile discovered that even these peripheral attachments have specific personal identification properties which also make them uniquely our own. We know what Corrado Soprano thinks of feet! Oh, well, a portrait of my foot? Why not! Some might find it more agreeable than my mug.
Some of my favorite portrait artists are those whose portraits are not what you would call "photographic" in likeness. I admire Rembrandt, Goya, Cezanne, Van Gogh, Picasso, Max Beckmann, Francis Bacon, and Alice Neel to mention just a few. All these artists share a similar interest in discovering dynamic inner forces of personality behind our formidable "domes". In addition, they all paint with a vigorous brush which imparts a palpable presence to their subjects. Theirs are portraits to be sure, and richly painted surfaces slathered into the mix.
There are different stages of working when painting a portrait. It begins with trying to capture a certain "headness", meaning that which we all share in common: a basic block with all the features solidly placed in relation to each other. Some of us are more blockheaded than others and easier to capture. I love to paint persons with large noses, as it makes the job of pulling off a difficult to paint feature that much easier. And, hopefully the sitter is proud of his or her generous defining feature. More challenging than the big nose is the small nose. I usually enlarge them anyway to make the perspective of the head more convincing. Somehow, in contemporary culture, noses can never be too small much like we can never be too thin nor too rich. Gimme a big schnozz anytime. Of course, if you add a little extra to the fee, I'll zoom either way you want with yours, in or out.
After establishing the basic building block of the head, the challenge is then paying attention to what makes the head looking back at you so unique. The eyes seldom match in size and shape. If you examine one side of your face alone, you'll find it's sadly mismatched against the other. Yes, we're all Jekylls and Hydes. One corner of the mouth swoops in a different direction than the other. Ears seldom hang together. No wonder an artist like Manet chose to delete certain planes of the head altogether and iron out all those unruly parts. And then, perhaps most crooked and elusive of all, the smile. I'd much rather have a relaxed model before me than a beaming yellow smiley. That can be exhausting for both sitter and artist. I enjoy painting persons who are engaged in doing something they enjoy. That's when the mask of ego falls away and the artist is invited inside. They can read a book, watch the tube, or fondle their little Chihuahua. Some soothing music in the background is also conducive to a harmonious work space for both model and artist.
I've painted plenty of masks. Now I'm speaking of the wooden ceremonial kind. I have a collection of them in my studio which I frequently work from. They have shown me unlimited patience and time in sitting as still as Cézanne's apples. With them, I have no obligation to represent them in any way other than how I choose. They also don't talk or twitch. My masks have inner lives of their own which I am time and again challenged to uncover.
Photographs can be used to assist an artist in painting a portrait. I like to take videos of friends and family. Later, at the computer, I isolate particular frames which to me represent best the person I know. Still photos always require that we freeze and smile cheesily. Francis Bacon worked from black and white photos of his friends taken by his photographer friend, John Deakin. The absense of color information allowed Bacon to invent his own color. Many of his portraits were derived from looking at bits and pieces of photos and reproductions torn from books which were strewn across his studio floor. His portraits give a composite view of the head much like the Cubist portraits of Braque and Picasso. Bacon's portraits are often unsettling, being more about inner psychological states and painterly abstraction than about conventional likeness.
Early on I was attracted to the fluid brushwork of Frans Hals. There's much excitement and rich painterly invention to be found in his paintings. Cumulatively and mystifyingly, his masses of unblended strokes end up producing a portrait.
As I paint, I enjoy watching brushstrokes pattern themselves on my canvas. Each new stroke counts. Once I start to touch or blend strokes, their spontaneity is often lost. I try not to blend paint to any great extent, particularly with oil and watercolor which many favor for their blending qualities. With gouache and acrylic, however, the stiffer nature of these two media leads me very naturally to my broken brushwork.
October 30, 2009