Rich Sigberman Art & Illustration 90

Recently, an old kinescope of the TV broadcast of Dan Larsen's perfect game in the 1956 World Series came to light. Larsen was a nondescript pitcheer whose career was basically one of mediocrity (although he did play for the dominant New York Yankess of the 50's, which must say something for his ability), but for one incredibly, blessed afternoon in October, 1956, when he threw a perfect game against the Brooklyn dodgers. The odds of this happening must have been staggering, but it happened.

It begs the question: how many of us experience perfection? And, when we do, how many of us appreciate its supreme moment, its rarity, the blessedness of the moment?

Maybe this is why people take "recreational" drugs, or become sex-aholics, or pursue physical exercise to their limit: to experiece those supreme moments when all is right with the world, or, al leat, with their world. Nirvana does not come easily.

There are times when I am able to get there through art, music, and an appreciation of a given moment. Right now is one such moment.

It is Saturday. Usually, I begin every Saturday by going to Community ITP, which is a great practice of people committed to self-evolving with a mind/body based regime. But this Saturday will be different. I've go the day planned out, nearly to the minute.

I have a lot of great work to do, so I'll be doing it with a sense of focus and joy, if not abandon. The two jobs I'm working on are for the Telluride Blues Festival, and the big piece for the client who does fantastic events. The latter will be populated by no less than 50 characters from his last production, and it's time for me to get it all pencilled out on a 5 feet wide sheet of watercolor paper. Much of it is done, but much of it still needs to be done.

I've already done 45 minutes of work on the Telluride piece, but now that it's appraching the point where it is well under control with all the drawing being done, I need to abandon it for a few days. The second piece will be my priority for the weekend. Oh yes- I promised to paint some doors here too.

So, the day is well planned out. Neither of these two art pieces will have much in the way of improvisation, but when the painting begins, there will be some room for that. I look forward to challengning myself and having fun.

Paul Desmond wrote that he wanted to be known as "the John P. Marquand of the alto". I have no idea who Marquand was, but I'll bet there was some self-deprecating humor involved, because that's how Desmond expressed himself. Of course, he knew how good he really was. And, he was the wittiest, smoothest alto player I know of, and he had his own sound. His musical quotes abound in his beautifully constructed solos, often making "in-jokes" if you happen to recognize them and their titles. I have never tired of listneing to Paul Desmond.

Why do I bring him up? A few days ago I was working on four different small projects, jumping rather effortlessly from one to another - two were gifts in watercolor, one was a small abstract done to fit an already existing mat and frame, and the last was part of a great job. All of these were united by a fair amount of thought; there was almost none of the visceral type of painting that is fun and cathartic and also a bit out of control in a scattershot way. I try to combine the intellectual and visceral in my art-decision making, but this time the intellect was way ahead, and that was fine.

On some level, I was trying to approach the art in the way Desmond approached his music - with wit, thought, and individual flair. The fact that he was the best at what he did, and I am somewhere down that food chain isn't relevant. It's just that my approach was toned down and controlled, but still a lot of fun. And, since I have a good knowledge of the history of drawing and painting, I am able to incorporate different aspects of what I know. Just like Desmond did.

This was a good week. I presented an illustrated poem as a special events gift to a woman who was being honored at an organization. I worked hard on the lettering and felt that it was better than adequate, and worked well with the overall design. My hope was that she will be very touched by the gift, as the poem is a favorite of hers. Two days later, two of my abstracts sold, which was most gratifying. Both of these pieces look like they were done from a visceral place, and to some extent they were, but there was plenty of conscious decision making in them too. It felt great to sell them to a person I know appreciates them . One of the two pieces was not toally abstract: collaged into the art were some comic figures from the early 1900s, sort of a "Desmondism" of my own, as if to say, "yes, they're abstract, but these little cartoon people seem to be saying otherwise".

I know they're corny. I know they're overused. Just the same, I am attracted to the heart shape, being attracted to its elegance and symbolism. So, at the risk of being a cornball, I began doing watercolor hearts and giving them away to friends.

They're not as simple or even as easy as they may look. I begin with a vertical line that goes down the middle of it, and draw it out from there. I try for symetry, but invariably fail, which is good since symetry is essentially dull. As I free-hand them, they are all a little different in shape.

Once I get the shape right, I begin painting with a light wash of color, usually a ruby red, but also I've done it in blue. When the light wash is about 80% dry, I begin adding shading, including space for reflected light. I will add two highlights near the two crowns and a spot of ligth color right in the center (this is where the "incandescent" part begins). It takes on the look of a jewel with a light in its center. When I do it right, and with patience, the transluscent quality of the watercolor adds to thie glow I'm going for. It looks alive. And the, I give it away.

I guess I've sent out about 12 or so. The hearts are usually without words, and thus the recipients may project what they want on to them. Most people have been really moved by them, with one or two it probably fell flat. It doesn't matter to me. I'm trying to express love, but also to give something that will give off a feeling when the people look at it.

It would be a good idea to just churn out a bunch of them and keep them on hand, stock piling them for the many people who can use the gesture. But usually I just do one at a time with a particular person in mind. Today's heart will go out to my cousin, Laurie.

February 14th. I have no idea who chose that date, dreadful weather nearly everywhere, to celebrate love, but there it is, commercialized, bowdlerized, over-emphasized, and nearly impossible to ignore.

So, it's about love, and I guess most people can get behind that. Romantic love, or other forms, love is to be celebrated, no? So, February 14th is as good a day as any to do it.

If you are some sort of working artist, who makes his living via his/her craft, my belief is that this is a great time to give something of your art, and by extension, of yourself, away. Create a piece of art that is a gift to someone you love. Or give it to someone who is in need of love. Talk about random acts of kindness! That one would give the recipient something to talk about for many years; you'd be surprised.

I figure that at least one of the reasons to create anything labelled as "art" should be an expression of love. It is done in the very creation of the art, in the t.l.c. that goes into its expression , and maybe the subject matter as well. Make one. It doesn't have to take too much of your precious time. And then, give it away.

Happy Valentine's Day.

So, it's the middle of February, and, as usual when my birthday is approaching, I get crabby as I compare my income with the cost of living. Actually, I was in such a vile mood last year this time, my wife didn't want to be around me. This year, I have some very good jobs going, at least, even if their budgets don't measure up to where I want to be. It gets me wondering if I'll ever get to a point where I feel that I've really done well in my art career.

Today, I did some good work, just the same. Generating new sketches always takes time and energy, but that's where it all starts. I did a very nice sketch for the blues festival poster that I'll be creating; it took about 3 hours to do. The rough sketch was already done, so this was a much more refined version with some research behind it. I await feedback from the festival promoter. I am hoping that when I'm at the festival, and the public puts one and one together recognizing my work, my sales will be brisk. It won't be, however, until mid-September.

In the midst of the commercial work I've got to do, I wanted to do something that involved no clients. My eyeballs fell upon a jazz watercolor of Grant Green I had done some time ago, and never considered successful. The colors were dull and the paper I worked on was cold-press and not easy to paint on. I had tried to dress it up in a variety of ways, all of them contributing to the mucky feel of the piece. The drawing, based on a photograph, was fine, and I still felt there was something to salvage here. I then realized that I'd been wanting to do an entire piece in blue tones, and this was the one to do. I began to mix opaque versions of blue, with white paint, and started going over the browns, pinks, and greens that had made up the piece. I then got tired.

You fellow artists out there: when you hit a brick wall, go to some old piece of art and play with it. Slop some new paint on it, or cut it up and make it the beginnings of a collage. Some times this can be fun, and it's much easier than beginning an entirely new piece of art. That's my advice. It takes one back to being a kid, on some level. After all, you're working on some art that means little to you, so you can't ruin it. And if you do ruin it, you've lost little. And, you get to play.

The Comics Journal is a helluva publication that goes in depth into the lives and careers of the best cartoon and sequential artists alive, and a few not so alive. When I got one that had extensive interviews and samples of the work of four of my art heros, I was so excited! The entire issue was devoted to Ed Sorel, Jules Feiffer, David Levine, and Ralph Steadman.

As I began to read through the interviews, some common threads came up: these guys are curmudgeons, intensely bright, intensely proud, and they produce great art. Sorel especially has some traits that coincide with some of my own, but I'm not close to being the artist he is. And, I'm not close to being the artist any of the other three are, either. I not only lack the training and work ethic they share, I seem to have lost some of my drive along the way to make the most original art I can. Lately, I've been content to keep up with my work assignments and generate income, no small feat for an artist, but not exactly the height of inspiration either.

I began to compare myself with these guys, and of course I fell short in all areas. I then did a sketch for a job, and it was flat. I felt like I was a hack.

My mood changed and lifted, and I realized that I am doing the best I can under the circumstances I've got. If I were to get more intense about the work and training I've got, maybe I'd be sacrificing something else, like my home life. Just the same, I do know that I can dig down deeper and create better work, whether it's on the technical level of pure good draughtsmanship, or making some sort of statement through the art.

Today, we visited Pixar, the home of some of the best animated movies ever made. There was storyboard sketch work on the walls that I felt I could do too. Will I ever get the chance to work under circumstances where I feel appreciated and well paid to do what I do best?