I was fortunate to find an image of this painting by Dosso Dossi (from 1520) online. It was wedged inside my brain in some far-off corner of my decrepit memory. I had seen it at the National Gallery maybe 6 or 7 years ago, when I went to Washington with my gal to see a show of Venetian painting. The city had flooded right at the time we arrived. I remember going to the gallery and no sooner had we checked in our coats and umbrellas when an employee called out that we all had to scram because of flooding in an adjacent building. On our third day there the gallery re-opened and I visited the exhibition. This painting by Dossi reminded me so much of the work of my friend Ed Boccia.
Now Ed is gone and I am trying to write about his technique for a possible Catalogue Raisonne. It is never easy writing about Painting. So much of the magic is impenetrable, despite technical elements that might seem decipherable or explainable or familiar. Why does this work by Dossi remind me of Ed's paintings? Well, it is partly the way that the paint is brushed on. Partly, how the thing is structured, how elements of landscape, for example, are layered, foremost as shapes of a certain color and value, next to one another and closely attuned to the picture plane. The tension between different areas, forms, contours, lines. Also the palette and how it is balanced and unified throughout.
This work is from 1520 and yet it speaks to the universal truths that exist independent of historical time.
Its connection to paintings by Ed Boccia - who was thoroughly grounded and genetically connected to Italian painting of the period - is genuine and poetic and deep. Many in the art trade today have lost sight of the importance of these connections and of the relativity of "sophistication". Many are mired in novelty and aggrandizement and spectacle. I feel blessed to be able to bend backwards and forwards, unconvinced of the trajectory of Art History put forth in many centers of high culture.
I left late morning on Saturday and left St. Louis late morning on Sunday - yesterday.
My trip was to see what is a memorial exhibit of paintings by my pal and mentor Ed Boccia, who passed away in September at 91 years of age. St. Louis University, which owns 100 of his paintings, put on the exhibit - lovingly and beautifully displayed.
At a wonderful dinner in a small, fine Italian restaurant Saturday evening, with Ed's daughter and son-in-law (in from LA) and his 91 year-old widow, Madeleine, we spoke about the show and Ed and the passing of time and art and career and much else. I was in a wistful, nostalgic mood.
Ed is not much known out of St. Louis because so many momentary prejudices in the Art world do not allow room for his kind of greatness: painters who understand the language of the discipline as it has passed onward over centuries and who are able to master the craft and wrestle it forward into a visual language that speaks to the personal present as well as all time. I know there are zillions of great artists out there who are fantastic at traditional mediums. But in my small universe, Ed is the best practitioner of the craft of painting that I know. I have been honored by his friendship and advice since having him as a professor at Washington University 500 years ago (so it seems...).
I do not flatter myself by comparing my work to Edward Boccia or anyone else. Yet I feel that in many ways I carry an invisible torch on into the future. I feel blessed to be able to see into Life and translate what I find into visual art. Ed compared Painting to Praying and I cannot disagree. He was fortunate to have a tenured position at a prestigious university that allowed summers off. I am fortunate to have the stubbornness to continue painting despite the lack of time and money and interest from New York galleries. I am just beginning to understand Painting after many decades of working it....the magic and mystery and illumination is still there to be discovered by those who venture into the known unknowable.
Children’s Hospital
is where
i have been
for most of
the past
two
days.
my
daughter
was hurting,
tests,
ultrasound showed
nothing,
catscan showed
an enlarged
appendix
plus
two
cysts.
surgery followed.
drugs galore.
a
grumpy
daughter
in bed, in
need,
in some odd
space.
a wonderful
hospital
it is, but
i must say
i am
overjoyed
to be
out
of
there.
1.1.13
I usually wake up from sleep every night at least twice to make the old man's journey down the stairs. My dreams are as vivid, though probably more convoluted and complex, than ever, but I often can't get back to sleep right away. Sometimes I move to the couch and read for a while. Other times I lay there in bed and think about things, half-asleep.
This morning I went through an entire process of making a book about the friends and acquaintances I have in this neighborhood of Northside. I imagined a book with photos by Annie Leibowitz, featuring odd pairings of image and text, stories, self-defining quotes, shots of familiar places in the area. I know of no other neighborhood full of so many interesting people, often socially-involved, eccentric, caring, weird. So many non-traditional and same-sex pairings. Doctors and architects living next door to struggling artists and laborers.
For almost an hour I reclined in the wee hours of our darkened bedroom fantasizing about this book. Black and white photographs. No bullshitting and no smiley-face setups.
Then, I think of the work involved. I remember how frustrated I've been for not having whole days for my own painting. I imagine trying to contact all of these people, coordinate the shoots and the interviews. I ponder the impossibility of getting Annie Leibowitz to even respond to the letter I send via some entity three times removed.
Yes, it ain't New York. So what? Even New York isn't New York anymore. I mean: Staples in Greenwich Village!? And the art scene there is dominated by Irony, with a capital 'I', stupid installation art propped up by pseudo-intellectual critical analysis. Where is Harold Rosenberg when you need him? I digress - Northside ain't New York City nor should it be. It is an anomaly within the ordinary.
Humans do their thing all over the world and culture often rises and falls inspired by the doings of the few rather than the many. I'm like so many other half-lazy slobs who dream of great things half-asleep in bed, in the wee small hours of the morning.
this
rest, peaceful
solitude in such
sweet, breezy comfort,
in Menonaqua,
a cottage for all
times and
everything we need
right now.
never mind what
wealth surrounds us,
we inhale
divine lake breezes,
we walk
these timeless sands,
we drink
the wine of life
and we
love
this
for always,
this place nestled so
perfectly on
Little Traverse Bay,
this shrine of
peace
and
happiness.
8.21.12
the Skipper had sage advice
for Gilligan,
as i have wise thoughts
to share with Curly:
you may have died,
but death can't stymie
ridiculousness.
as the anchor slips
through shallow waters,
we gather new scripts
based on old ideas,
modern as always,
locked into an eternal
struggle between
God and The Professor.
coconuts and striped
cabanas, Curly making
sand circles with his
body, this extended
mayhem endures,
not only for the
cameras, but up here
as well,
in the attic, silent,
stuffy, quiet.
shh...here comes
Ginger.
8.17.12
sitting out here
at this lake house
i rented from friends,
the sun and sky
are glorious, the air
clear with wind
drenched by water,
the waves softly
whisper a restful
tone poem.
wealthy neighbors
won't know my
poverty and Doe's
new shiny car
will further conceal
my progressive tendencies.
this ruby red wine
in my glass
will also help
heal
some of the
inconsistencies
of
living.
8.12.12
