Parables of the Knicker Drawer

I met Gill when I was fourteen years old. She was expecting her first child, Robert, and as a Cub Scout leader with an upcoming weekend camp scheduled, had mentioned to her co-worker, my step-mum, that an extra pair of hands at camp would be a nice thing. My step-mother immediately volunteered me to help. Being a disinterested former Girl Guide, not to mention disinterestedly fourteen, I wasn’t too keen on being press-ganged into chasing boys around a campsite. But parental authority being what it is, I reported for camp. And thus began one of the best relationships of my teen years.

The first impression I had of Gill was that she was real. No facades on this lovely lady, she possessed a marvelous sense of humor, subtle and self deprecating, but always razor sharp and completely spot-on in its observation of the nuttiness in everyday moments. As an altogether too-serious teenager, she showed me that life could be fun if you had a good laugh now and then, especially if you could do it at yourself. As she and Colin encouraged me to stay in Scouting, I got to learn about volunteering for kids from two of the masters at the game.

Their house became a haven for me in many ways. I got to hang out there under the guise of helping out with Robert, and later Jamie, but really, Gill was making sure I had a place to escape a trying relationship with my step-mother, and to test the fledgling wings of impending adulthood without judgment or pressure. She was the perfect combo of the coolest auntie and the big sister that actually liked you. She even “forgot” to take the Harold Robbins books out of the spare room when I was old enough to be curious about boys.

Gill never talked to me like I was a child. Come to think of it, she never talked to Robert, Jamie, or the Cub Scouts like they were kids either. She had the gift of talking to you like she was absolutely confident that you were already everything she believed you could be. Part acceptance and part encouragement. Although I was on another continent when I had my son, I like to think that the closeness in my relationship with him has much to do with the example she and Colin set.

The first time we talked about the return of her cancer, Gill handled it with typical aplomb. Well, she said, time to enjoy wearing the good knickers. Even as time counted down, she told me of the transitions in her life as Parables of the Knicker Drawer. Wearing the good ones now (don’t delay or deny yourself life’s best parts). Finally chucked the ones with the loose elastic (don’t spend time with people that don’t make you feel good). Must tidy the damn drawer out so as not to leave that mess for my boys (take care of the ones you love the most).

How perfect it was that on the day I learned she left us, I was wearing an uncomfortable pair of knickers that had somehow escaped the rubbish bin. I chucked them at the end of the day. Thank you for teaching me right up to the end, Gill.

(My dear friend Gill Harding left us on June 22, 2011, at the too young age of 63. She is survived by husband Colin, sons Robert and Jamie, and countless other people who love her.)

Showing my stuff

Lucky me, I get to show my stuff again. The lovely people at 643 Project Space in Ventura offered me a show, so I took them up on it. You can find the details here:
http://www.samhunterart.com/pages.php?content=news.php&navGallID=News

For the West Coast peeps, it is a chance for you to see (up close and personal) a good portion of the work that earned me my MFA. For the East Coasters, you've seen most of it before, so while you are missing out on the shortbread, you've already seen the art.

I will also be rolling out a new project, something that requires interaction from the folks in the gallery. Instructions and materials will be provided. If you can't make it to the opening and you still want to participate, please shoot me your mailing address in a private email (along with the names of two colors you like) and I will send you a kit.

Let the party commence!

Vote with your feet

Blake Gopnik, in the Washington Post, writes a couple of smart paragraphs about a piece of art being pulled from a show after a group kicked up a fuss. He makes a few great points.... that the role of the museum is to broaden our scope, and that the role of the curator is to bring together works that challenge us to think, to form opinion, to accept or reject. He also points out that the appropriate form of rejection is to walk away, to withdraw your attention - not to censor or demand censorship. We've gone to war with countries that censor their people heavily, because such lacks of freedom are contrary to the ideals these United States were founded upon.

Think about it... when our interest in a TV show wanes, the series gets canceled. Same goes for any consumer product - think ThighMaster, or then again, maybe don't :-)

Museums are full of art... some great, some not so. If you don't like something, folks, just walk away. There's bound to be something you do like in the next room.

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2010/11/30/AR2010113007227.html?wprss=rss_print/style

Image: Ed Ruscha's OOF, 1962/3, in the collection of the Museum of Modern Art, NY. Photo by Sam Hunter.

Finally

My web site is finally up and live, after much wrangling, hand-wringing, and extraordinarily colorful language - and we all know how much I love color! It has only been two years since I bought the domain name.

It has been one heck of an education. I would love to say that I programmed it myself but I bailed on that once I realized that I should stick to what I'm good at, and pay money to people who are good at other things like designing sites!

You can find the site here: www.samhunterart.com

It's home to images of most of the art I've made in the last half dozen years. Well, the good stuff, anyway. Let me know what you think (especially if I made a spelling mistake!)

Bilingual

I’ve always considered art to be a language of communication. Sometimes I make art just for the pure joy of playing with orange fabric, but most of the time it’s because I’m trying to articulate something. Like language, art has formal rules and structures, made to be followed, ignored, or flat out rebelled against. They both evolve with their generations, subtracting obsolete phrases and adding new colloquialisms as needed to fulfill their need to say something, to communicate.

We make words when we need them. I love the German fondness for creating wildly descriptive compound words: “the-pants-with-the-pockets-made-of-blue-cotton” kind of words. I also love the American fondness for creating humorous contractions like “bro-mance” that, in their tight shorthand, tell us volumes about the depth of the friendship between the men the word refers to.

You may ask why make art if we have words? Surely we can express ourselves adequately with the richness of our language, right? And, indeed, our language is rich. Consider the myriad ways to discuss the blue of the sky. Deep, cloudless, summer blue. The cold gray-blue of a frosty winter morning. The foreboding grey-blue that says a storm is coming. The clean, sweet blue after it has passed. Yet despite such range, language can still fail – just think back to the last high stakes misunderstanding you had with a loved one, where it was mostly about one of you assuming that the other meant THIS with those words, when what was really meant was THAT.

And then there is the noise, the cacophony of mass media in a busy life. Buy this, buy that. Vote for this, vote for that. Look at this, be shocked by that. Worry about this, fret about that. And so, with a nod to Guy Debord, in the midst of this spectacle clamoring for our attention we tune out, turn off. Only something really big, or really different, might make us look up, take notice. And this is where I think art can function most powerfully. It can deliver the same message in faceted detail or laser focused precision. Through its imagery, design, and color, it can shout all the words that we can no longer hear, not to mention say all the words that we might be afraid to speak out loud. Art can turn a short story into an epic, and deliver a deeply complicated concept in a one-liner. It can translate all that noise into the clear, ringing peal of a bell. In short, art speaks.

And so in the middle of the media’s attention to gay suicides and teen bullying, the humanizing magazine photos and slickly designed infographics, the viral video “It Gets Better” campaigns and the topical plot lines of TV series such as Glee, I offer you this piece of art by David Wojnarowicz: Untitled (One Day This Kid…)

(With thanks to P.P.O.W, the Estate of David Wojnarowicz, the Trevor Project, and Tyler Green).

Color matters

A couple of days ago I had a delightful conversation with my friend John about color. Of all the aspects of art that turn me on (and there are many) color reigns high. Knowing how to manipulate color is like having the keys to the kingdom. John’s words about how I use color in my work are still marinating upstairs, and I will write about the results when I start cooking the ideas.

The day after this conversation I visited the Portland Museum of Art as I drove through Oregon. It is a modest museum with a few sweet gems and a lovely sculpture garden. They allow photography only outside, but I didn’t know that when I took the shots above. The postcard department was good for paintings and disappointing for sculpture, ever the bridesmaid in most collections. One of these days I swear I’m gonna write a letter… but I digress.

As I wandered the collections, I began to be tuned into the colors of the rooms. The museum had a recent facelift, and in the process colors were introduced to the walls. The series of galleries above were respectively ruby red, sage green, and cornflower blue. The red gallery housed the pre-renaissance religious works, beautifully accenting the red robes and rosy baby Jesus cheeks. The green gallery was mostly landscapes of sweeping greens and earth tones. The blue gallery was full of the likes of frilly Fragonard works, all pastel ruffles and pastoral scenes with puffy clouds in summer skies. In each case, the choice of wall color made the paintings shine a little brighter. And note that the signage was colored to blend back into the wall (that small red rectangle next to the Murillo above) so as not to distract. Subtle, but lovely.

A few years back, the Getty had a special exhibition of Rembrandt’s late religious portraits. They were hung on deep burgundy walls, a truly inspired and very memorable installation. These paintings became grander, more luscious, their colors even deeper and richer than they ever could have been in a traditional white box gallery. The color gave the installation so much and yet took nothing away.

Back in Portland, there was another installation of colorful walls. The graphic novelist R. Crumb has illustrated the book of Genesis, and each page of the book was neatly framed onto bright red, blue, and purple walls. The colors were strong and clear, a bold choice on which to highlight the pristine white/black of the illustrations. As I perused, I wondered who chose them, wondered why these particular shades, why there was no green or red. As I rounded the corner to the permanent collection, there was a small work by Josef Albers, one of his many and notable Homage to the Square works that explore the relationships of colors, titled “Late Reminder 1957.” I can’t find an image of it anywhere to share with you, but I’ll tell you this… it was the same red, blue, and purple as the walls. Riddle solved.

The Wonders of a Good Dog

Meet Skye. She’s a two-and-a-half year old black lab girl that came to my friends Karen and John a couple summers back. They had been searching for a rescued dog for a while, having recently settled into a nice house outside Seattle that has the kind of yard that just begs for a game of fetch. My apologies for the picture… black dogs don’t afford the camera a lot of contrast to work with, and, well, she’s a real moving target so Karen was attempting to hold her still with her foot. Skye is really best experienced in tail wagging 3D.

Skye and her sister were abandoned one summer day. Both purebred and well behaved, they were not the kind of dog one would usually find homeless. It would seem that the current spate of tough times might have forced their owners to make a hard decision about who was getting fed. Fortuitously found and taken to a local dog trainer, the dogs were soon ready for new homes.

Skye arrived with good manners, and Karen and John have worked hard to keep them tuned up. While she is certainly a well loved girl, the love she gets comes down on the side of a besotted doting rather than a flat out spoiling. Her people keep her in line on the important stuff, the stuff that makes her easy for dog shy people (like me) to be around. Like any other intelligent animal that has been rescued, I think she knows she’s got it good here and seems determined not to goof it up. She doesn’t jump up (heaven!), she rarely whines, and she barks only when her job dictates it (people at the door, itinerant critters in the yard).

She is also a real character: while obedient about laying down when told to, she has a cute way of pretending that if she’s not looking at you when you command her, maybe you’ll buy that she didn’t hear you until she gets around to flopping down. It’s not really disobedient, just the typical pas-de-deux one does with a healthily headstrong teenager. She doesn’t chew on anything that isn’t hers, but loves to carry her toys around, her latest favorite being a pair of clean socks. She often sleeps on her back, legs akimbo and tongue lolling, belly right there just asking to be rubbed. Like any other self-respecting dog, she is accomplished in the art of the unsuspecting SBD.

Skye is a beautiful glossy black, and her ears feel like the softest velvet. She has intelligent and expressive gold eyes, the eyes of the retriever breeds, ready to guilt trip you at a moment’s notice. Let’s not forget that she is a dog, not a saint, and so of course she will use those eyes to try to convince you that she hasn’t been petted or fed in a week, perhaps two. She isn’t allowed to beg at the table, but let me tell you, those eyes often get her a treat in her bowl at the end of a meal.

One of her nicknames is “Skye the Wonder Dog” (see what I mean about besotted?!) Those of you who know me know that I am an avowed cat person. But I could be swayed to convert on the wonders of this particular dog… just as soon as I’m done scratching her ears.