The Boston Rope The first time I went to Boston I did not yet have a gallery I had a girlfriend What better reason to be in an unfamiliar city? But to be an artist in a new place, one might do well to find kindred spirits, yes? So, how does one meet other artists in a strange town? I went to galleries, all in the gallery district I found a sculptor whose work I admired called him and we met for a beer On my way I found a hunk of rope flattened on Commonwealth Avenue Into the shape of a question mark What better gift for a sculptor? visit Sandy Kinnee.com

Persistence Anyway If you need to know something, anything, Ask someone online They will surely have some sort of answer Probably disappointing I sent an email to a friend who as far as I know never showed her work She said only 4% of artists sell their art And usually that dries up She has an MFA and publishes art by others So she should know In her opinion few of that 4% have shelf-life Beyond ten years Perhaps there is a following each of this 4% Gathers as supporters Then, in time they all age and that audience Ages in the usual way Which is to say they die just as the 4% artist Will as well Frankly, isn’t 4% a bit overblown a number Better odds than the Lottery This put me into a gloomy mood and there is Little else I can do Except to head back to the studio and paint For the person I always delight visit Sandy Kinnee.com

Paint It Any Color If you wonder why I write about dead artists and no one younger it is because you know who I’m writing about This year going to the Venice Biennale didn’t work out for me Even there I tend to look at everyone and still speak of the dead Why talk about the living? They are still for the time being, alive There is plenty of time to speak of them once they are gone Here I sit and write around the corner from Manet‘s home It wasn’t a house built from the sale of his paintings It was the house he was born into and lived in all his life a grand city maison By all indications he was the polar opposite of the artist starving in the garret cliché He painted because he was a painter He also had the luxury to paint as he did with any colors he wanted He could use black if he wanted to I bet he could have used real gold leaf but didn’t visit Sandy Kinnee.com

Two Very Old Artists Looking at the Same Thing I watched as two older artists talked about that thing called painting One said she was amazed at how the paint hopped from her bucket onto the canvas dripping this way or that as it would Surprising her the next day by how it had dried She said she never wanted to be a famous artist just a really great one that let the paint do the work while she took the credit The other artist spoke of rolling paint over slippery glue Dictating situations in which the paint would dry into chance patterns Nudging chaos in lovely and mysterious ways Surprising him the next day by how it had dried He said he never wanted to be a famous artist just a really great one that let the paint do the work while he took the credit I watch these older artists talk about this activity this phenomenon called painting This fixing of paint to canvas into shapes and forms regardless of the excuse of which or whom is in control of how the pain...

Look at the Onions Standing before still life with onions I ask myself that cliché query Not the one concerning What does Cezanne want me to see? What is the viewer supposed To take away from the experience of These marks Paul Cezanne has layered On this rectangle of canvas? No, it is my own cliché inquiry The one I ask myself as I stand Before any canvas I look for what I call a doorknob A point where I can enter the painting And look around To slip off my shoes Then try his on I see the onions

Trusting One’s Own Eyes The world is a varied and glorious place. Those people who populate it are similar to one another externally, still with wonderous variety. Yet, it is how we take the world in through our five senses and how we process this input that makes each of us unique. “People taste what they wish to taste. And in most cases what they are told to taste.” It is said the world is split between those who enjoy the taste of cilantro and those who don’t. This is not personal preference, or acquired taste, but a trait encoded in our genetic structure. I find cilantro unpleasant, like licking a bar of soap. I can eat something with cilantro without ill effect, it just isn’t a taste that is enjoyable. This genetic influence is a minor issue when it comes taste buds and the world of cuisines. Much of what people will push between their lips and tongue has to do with foods to which they have been exposed and are accustomed. Some foods are comfort foods, others a dar...

Message in a Bottle Artworks are made by living beings and ultimately put into a bottle and cast into the see The same too with poems visit Sandy Kinnee.com

Paint the Wall His father gave him an important task, one he knew his ten-year-old son could handle. Apply a coat of primer to the wall in the basement. The boy had helped his dad paint before, just a little. This would be his first solo paint job. But even if he messed up it was in the basement and not really noticeable. The boy would be at home, it was summer recess. Usually, he and his friends would do something together, such as go down to the river and catch frogs or go play home run derby with whiffle balls in the vacant yard adjacent to where the cranky old man lived. The boys had learned the hard way that the old man would not return their baseball if it landed in his yard. In June, the geezer kept a foul ball that accidently busted his dining room window as he was darning socks. Whiffle balls do not break windows. Today was not a day for frogs or home run derby. The weatherman forecast rain, rain, rain. Could he invite his friends over? They could play with their t...

A Fizzled Poem From Claes Oldenburg I learned to Triage my artworks He would work on a piece Then, turn his back on it Let it dry He would walk away Put it out of his head. Time would pass Enough for him to disconnect To judge what he had done Over a period of time objectively This let him perform triage. From the accumulated artworks Claes sorted them into two stacks And a pile One stack is made of pieces That are incomplete Yet hold potential Begging more work The other stack is for works Deemed successful and complete The third pile was reserved for The shredded failures Pieces that had fizzled It was a very small pile Some things do not work out That is natural For example This Fizzled Poem visit Sandy Kinnee.com

Unveil the Painting Speaking euphemistically One Purpose of the painter Is to unveil the painting Lurking inside the canvas In a manner of speaking Each brushstroke reveals A hint of the painting Waiting to be seen I bend the words of The man with a chisel Who also patched colors Onto celestial vaults “Every block of stone has A statue inside it And it is the task of the Sculptor to discover it.” Hunting with a laden brush To find the painting inside The canvas is the Quest of the painter visit Sandy Kinnee.com

Over-Splatter and Photographic Support While the concept of using splotches and drips, on front and backs of Jackson Pollock’s painting, to ascertain the sequence of creation may seem intuitive at best, photographic evidence supports the veracity of the over-splatter tool. Three specific paintings photographed during their sequential creation provide a baseline that makes clear the numbering method used to assign inventory control is clearly not an indicator of sequence. Both photographic evidence offered by the Namuth images and examination of over-splatter establish the following order of creation. The numbers assigned to the paintings by Parsons are 30, 31, 32. 30 is the MoMA (Number One) painting, 31 belongs to the MET (Autumn Rhythm), and 32 is in Dusseldorf. Not only is it irrefutable in the Namuth images, but supported by the over-splatter on the completed works that the order in which these three artworks were painted is: 31, followed by 30, and lastly 32. Since...

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Flowers Without Outlines One purpose of education, Especially in grade school, Is to assimilate And conform to norms. Modelling, i.e. showing the desired answers Is reinforced by good or bad grades Praise or punishment. Praise is a sort of gentle whip. I recall Mrs. Lockjaw’s reaction To my Crayola drawing. “My what pretty flowers you have drawn. Now, you should outline the petals Make them look more like The rest of the class. You do want to go to recess Not the principal’s office, Don’t you”? I was led across the hall To the principal’s office. Today, 68 years later I will go for a walk. Hopefully, there will still be flowers Without outlines. visit Sandy Kinnee.com

From Matisse to Pollock to Whom? Funny how looking at a Matisse twenty years ago has taken me on a meander to Pollock and Monet and many other artists Looking closely leads to seeing Seeing can provoke observation and thinking I stroke my naked chin as I tilt my head Pondering the possible implications of what I see that can never be found when looking at a poster or art book Matisse was my baseline For decades the thing I most enjoyed was how he let his footsteps show When I saw one of his paintings on a gallery wall I made a point of heading in his direction so he might reveal to me what he had been thinking as he painted I looked at his color choices his alterations of shape or composition. In virtually every case he left a sliver of the original choice visible It was most delightful when he over-painted an area of color with a new color Each layer of paint indicated not just a change in hue but a refinement Matisse painted until the pai...

The Library Book I have always liked old libraries and ancient books. Books and libraries were such advanced technologies and wonderous sources of images and ideas. Note I put this as past tense. Years ago I began a project called the Library Book. The intent was to express my joy of discovery when I was in a library. My travels have taken me from my hometown Carnegie Library to the old Springfield Massachusetts Library, various university and college libraries, the New York Public Library, The Library of Congress, the private library of the French Senat, and the reading room of the National Library of France. But where I spent the most time exploring was in stacks of Tutt Library at Colorado College. My Library Book was put on hold when the college renovated the building. During the process of remodeling the structure, the concept of what a library is was also readdressed. At that point in time many books were culled from the collection and carted off to a landfill, much l...

Message in a Bottle Artworks are made by living beings and ultimately put into a bottle and cast into the see The same, too, with poems visit Sandy Kinnee.com

Punching In I watched an old movie that took place many years ago. It was before my time, save one familiar element: workers punching in for work, out for lunch, back in after lunch, then back out at the end of the day. The sound of a time stamp on an hourly worker’s time stub. Pick up your timecard from the OUT board, Punch In, Place the card on the IN board. Pick up your card from the IN board, Punch Out, place it in the OUT board. Punch In, Punch Out, Punch In, Punch Out, Punch In, Punch Out, Punch In, Punch Out. It was what hourly workers did to get paid. The checks were always a week later. They weren’t very much, after the deductions. But it was money. Spent already. I recall that the purpose of timecards was to keep a worker honest. There were ways around it, such as punching a friend’s card for them, giving them more hours than they really logged. But never mind that. Making minimum wage and punching a card seemed somehow humiliating. It was just the way it ...

The Patience Teacher The largest issue I always have Is waiting for the paint to dry Large canvas or small panel The paint knows only to dry At the same rate Always teaching me patience One day I will learn visit Sandy Kinnee.com

Pollock’s The Deep Staple gunned canvas Plenty of bristles Forever floating In a vanilla Milkshake sea Protected long After Jackson’s Death by a polished Aluminum Kulicke frame Likely welded by So-called minor Artist Robert Kulicke Himself Pollock makes It obvious He is painting Not on the floor With a stick Using a bargain House painters Brush for Do it yourselfers Horse hairs shed Everywhere Deliver an overt Message: "I can Paint also With a brush" Looking closely at Jackson Pollock’s 1953 painting: The Deep In the collection of the Centre Pompidou. visit Sandy Kinnee.com

False Doors and Fake Windows Straight to the conclusion: False doors are magical, or at least allude to magic. They promise nothing specific and are not actual doors. Because they are false doors they lead to nowhere because you cannot pass through them, at least not bodily. I like and appreciate false doors, trompe l’oeil or in any other form. Because they lead nowhere, they also lead anywhere your mind can take you through them. I especially like the false doors carved into tomb walls, in pyramids and elsewhere. Do not confuse false doors with hidden or secret doors. Those doors may be passed through and while they may lead to wonderlands, they are not of my particular concern. I limit myself to doors you cannot get to the other side of and windows that are only an illusion of something beyond. Never have I enjoyed fake windows. A window is a hole through a wall that permits a view of what is on the other side of that wall. One does not crawl through a window to the ...

An Authentic Cave Experience Like Monet’s Nymphaea’s, the cave experience is most often ruined by crowds and unnatural lighting, as well as indoor sidewalks. It is so inauthentic, so tailored to pushing through gawking tourists. This is not so in one special cave I spent time in, Bernifal. At Bernifal one parks in a small parking lot next to a curving secondary highway. Then one has to figure out which path to follow through a forest for an undisclosed distance to a hidden steel door. As you walk you are taken back in time. Except for your way of dress and what you carry on your body or in your brain, you could be contemporaneous with the person who made marks on the gallery walls of the cave. The guide showed up after we found the opening to the cave. He did not lead us to the cave, but wandered along the same natural forest, under the filtered green light cast by sunshine through dense leaves. The only sounds came from a brook and unseen birds and our own footfalls. Th...

A New Broom Sweeps Clean She was a new broom Not a metaphor He leaned her against His work van A red bucket and An electrical cord Sat on the pavement Either side of her Neither electrical cord Nor bucket was new As metaphors they might be jealous Of the broom’s Sex appeal He washed his hands Before he swept with her She would soon lose Her sparkle Become yet another Old broom That forgets how to sweep clean visit Sandy Kinnee.com

Clement Greenberg Wearing a Helmet (or the conversation he and I never had) I, too, would be skeptical of the following tale if this hadn’t involved me. This event I am about to describe took place back in the 1970s while I worked at a college art museum. The curator of modern art, whom I very recently spoke with (2018), remembered this visit, but not the purpose. There was no talk, event or exhibition. My role was to drive Clement Greenberg to the airport. During the drive we talked mainly about Picasso’s death and his late work. I, unfortunately, remember no details of the conversation except that neither one of us cared much for Picasso’s late work. I believe Greenberg said that someday in the future people may give the paintings more consideration. I wish I had thought to record our conversation and I most certainly wish that I had at that time the knowledge and interest, which I now have in Pollock, so I might ask the questions that I would like answered. In particula...

Traditionally it works this way: The artist paints a picture. The art dealer shows it to a collector. Collector buys it and pays the dealer. The dealer gives a portion to the artist. The artist pays bills, which include studio rent. The dealer has bills to pay as well. The collector wakes up early each morning and smiles at the new framed artifact hanging in a hallway between the bedroom and bath. It works that way in fairy tales, the showing and sale of the artwork enable the artist to keep painting. It also gives the artist some emotional validation and an outlet for sharing his talent. What person doesn’t wish to share the fruits of his or her labors? It’s only natural we want others to taste, to read, to touch, to hear, to see, to appreciate what we do or make or create. “Come listen to this…”. It is human to want others to appreciate your work. But frankly, it can be a pain in the ass to stop working, when it is working that fills your spirit, just so others can take a peek...

Snow Day Pagan is such a strange word for you to use in connection with snowmen. I expect you intend something such as pre-Christian or pre-Muslim or pre-Organized religion. Snowmen are connected to those cultures and peoples who live in climates that have snow and especially have a history with the Ice Age. Those who stayed in place during the harsh winters rather than migrating great distances can relate to the snowman. To others the snowman is a game or curiosity. Is my book based upon fact, complete with smoking gun? No. Have you ever made a snowman and six months later examined the remains of what had been the snowman? When was the last time you ate a turkey for Thanksgiving? Where are the remains that prove you ate the bird? I have no proof that Ice Age humans made a decision to substitute human sacrifice with symbolic snowmen. But, when you look at any ancient children’s game you will find a darker origin that has been sanitized during the past hundred or so year...

The So-Called Cardboard That Toulouse Lautrec Painted Upon Not all cardboard is created equal. Let me point out that Henri Toulouse Lautrec worked on canvas, paper, and what is called cardboard. The type of cardboard is not what comes to mind when we picture cardboard. It is neither corrugated nor the brownish processed kraft material composed of wood pulp. It is a pressed material that is sometimes known as pasteboard. The color is generally a neutral grey. If one takes a commercially available artist’s canvas panel and peals off the canvas, you would have a piece of pasteboard that approximates the material HTL painted upon using essence (gasoline) thinned oil paint. The medium allows for a non-gloss finish to the color When you see an illustration of one of Luatrec's paintings done with this medium on board you miss the luscious matte quality of the way the material first soaks into the pasteboard and then evaporates. So, why did Henri de Toulouse Lautrec use this p...

Today I Will Not Buy a Bottle of Ink I have a brush and a bit of dried ink in the bottm of my inkwell If I dampen the hairs of my brush resuscitate the residue I may not need to go buy a fresh bottle of India ink So what if the ink dries Gray not black visit Sandy Kinnee.com

Found a Cave We found a cave Well maybe some credit to the dog He was chasing a rabbit Fell in Barked and barked We came to his rescue Deep hole Ran home to the tool shed Came back with rope Tied one end to a tree Got the dog out While in the pit Noticed it ran off Into pitch black Sprinted home again For a lantern This time Caves are like Halloween Night minus Moon and stars We crawled then Walked Crawled on our knees Do you know the smell Of kerosene lit Dank dirt? Imagine trick or treat After midnight No one comes to the door We pass through What we later call Galleries Stone chambers Convoluted Contorted walls Here and there Marks that Seem animal-like Might be depictions Of creatures Yet lack frames Silly scratches And smears of pigment Upon the rough surface We go back to The shed returning With chisels and hammers With great effort We plumb the walls Make a fine wine cellar Painted the walls mint green Maybe...

On the Flat No one has asked me a particular and obvious question. Why do most painters paint on an easel and I don’t? Perhaps they think they know the answer, that I am influenced by Pollock, a dripper-wanna-be. Or, the rejection of the easel could be a statement or choice. Maybe I do it because it’s different. No. The simple truth doesn’t go back to when I was three and painted with bare hands on the front porch floor with forest green oil paint, the better part of a gallon, too. It was because I have always worked on flat horizontal surfaces. If a large enough table was available that would be where I would draw or paint, otherwise the floor would do. Most kids have floors and tables. Everyone works that way or begins working on the flat. In art school you are expected to use an easel, unless you are focused on printmaking. Guess what? Etching, lithography, woodblock, and screenprinting were my media. All print forms are done on the flat. So, it is quite obvious t...

Pig Tail Plug with a Bakelite Casing At most I could have been seven, more likely I was six years old. The Catholic Church says the age of reason is seven, an age when you should know better and when sins count. Before seven you should be able to get away with murder, right? Apparently not as far as dad was concerned. When I was a couple years older I had friends whose fathers had a whole area in their basement called a workshop. The walls were covered with pegboard. That is where their dads displayed their tools. Each screwdriver was hung on a hook and arranged by type and size. Phillips head here, flat head there. Each tool was carefully outlined on the pegboard and the ends of every tool was dipped in orange rubber paint to make it clear these tools belonged together. The father’s initials were engraved on everything, even the hammer. The room was clean and tidy, everything sparkled. It even smelled of Lysol, like the rest of the house, not of sawdust or the making of...

Ugly Art He Said Brian wondered how I could spend so much time making ugly art when there is so much beauty in the world to paint Why not paint the lake in the morning? Roses and marigolds in a vase? Or the way sunlight makes a halo out of hair if you stand in just the right spot in the late afternoon? Brian was an old man I was a kid fresh out of art school Years passed And then Brian became an older man and didn't sleep anymore After his wife Lilian passed away she the one whose hair looked like a halo in the late afternoon Brian set up a studio in his basement A horizontal sheet of plywood covered his pool table A slab of Sumi ink, brushes, paper He promised to show me what he'd been doing down there alone and I promised to go look He said I'm sorry for what I said about you wasting time making ugly art It isn't ugly at all once you look at it instead of hair glowing in the late afternoon light "It is it...

On the Hanging of Unstretched Canvas As my paintings are not painted on an easel, but on the floor from all sides, there is no actual up or down. There is only painted side and unpainted side. (in some cases, both sides of the canvas are painted). In a perfect world I would invite those participating in the artwork to experience the painting as I do, by walking around and stepping on the canvas. I like to think of the painting as a canoe or a rowboat or kayak. You may enter it or swim around it, looking in. It is only when you get into the boat that you can let it carry you away. There is nothing wrong with watching a kayak from a distance, but it is not the same experience as is intended for the vehicle. My paintings are intended to carry one away from the day to day, not necessarily to white water. As there is no imperative horizontal or vertical, no absolute right or left. The unstretched paintings may be hung either horizontal or vertical. There is only a sense ...

Like a Broken Record Back in the old days of technology I learned how to splice magnetic tape end to end to create an endless tape loop. A tape loop only repeats. The message is always the same. Back in the old days of technology I learned how to splice magnetic tape end to end to create an endless tape loop. A tape loop only repeats. The message is often the same. No. The message is always the same. Sometimes it is necessary to repeat to get a point across. Sometimes repetition is a weapon or a mantra. A mantra is anything but a weapon. In those old days when tape loops were new to me, they seemed a fresh experience, hypnotic, white noise that could create a sound texture, something like a curtain or screen to filter out the world. When I work in my studio, I am alone with my brushes and colors, cut off from the world by a wall of sound. I hit the repeat button and no distracting thoughts or sounds interrupt my concentration. A visitor to my studio may find the repet...

On the Use of Hot Water Except when a water heater fails and that does happen often at the wrong time we take the flow of hot water for granted This morning I took a cold shower By cold I mean frigid not lukewarm I am in a petite Parisian apartment I unwittingly depleted the small hot water supply by simply washing breakfast dishes then hopping in the shower I braved it out Tomorrow I will not repeat this mistake. Tonight, after washing the dinner dishes I remembered that my grandmother boiled enough water for two portions of her dishwashing regimen She washed in cold water dipped the plate in a tepid rinse basin stood the dishes in a rack then when all the washing and rinsing was complete poured boiling water over the dinnerware Her pots and pans and china and tableware were so clean you could eat off them

Sofa-Sized Art and the Modern Residential Wall I am a sofa-sized artwork on an off-white modern residential wall. Some might presume I was painted by Bob Ross. But my collector tells anyone who asks if I am an original Ross, that, no, Bob Ross never painted such a large painting as I. She then jabs her index finger at a scribbled name on my lower left, your right: Monet. C. Monet to be exact: Chas. That is probably short for Charles, a strange name for the factory artist who painted me, especially since she and the five other artists in the same row of easels all sign their paintings the same way: C. Monet. It is funny knowing I am a clone, or clone-like. I bet if I had coffee with another version of myself, I would expect they get that Bob Ross comparison. Or, maybe not. I’ll never know. I don’t drink coffee. I am a sofa-sized painting on canvas with a metallic gold, aluminum frame. The gold frame makes me feel special. I was available unframed, my canvas carefull...