On the Landing Strip for Shadows Well, I probably should not weigh in, but the painting is not at MoMA in NYC, but is the SFMOMA San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. You are referring to Robert Rauschenberg's all-white painting triptych, described by John Cage as a landing strip for shadows. The actual quote is “airports for the lights, shadows and particles”. Of course the idea seems funny, as if Rauschenberg forgot to paint the canvas. But he did paint the canvas, which is the point. What is an artist but a person who makes Art? What is a painter but a person who applies paint? What has had paint applied to it is said to have been painted. The act of painting is to paint. Yes, it sounds silly. Rauschenberg was making a statement that pared down to its core, the act of painting is the important part of making a painting. While you may apply a fresh coat of paint to a room in your home, inspired by viewing Rauschenberg's White Painting, and then show your fri...

The Subject is Paper, Not Cat Skinning I don’t actually chase my cat around with the vacuum cleaner, but in a manner of speaking I do. I love my big black cat. However he sheds fur. It is the gathering of this fur, dust, breadcrumbs, lint, dry skin, gray human hair, popcorn, and additional random detritus that led me, upon emptying to the vacuum cleaner bag, to both imagine my cat being gathered in bits and pieces as well as my personal history with turning scraps of nothing into wonderful sheets of paper. Your name and contribution will come later. My cat’s name is Puck. Later on in this narrative I will use the phrase: “There are many ways to skin a cat”. I love my cat and generally that phrase is offensive, but being a common expression, I will use it. Historically, paper has been around as long as I can remember. I have memories of drawing upon sheets of paper as far back as the early 1950s, although there are those who insist paper existed even prior to my birth i...

Her Lucca Studio One of my aunt Mary’s so-called failings was in her lack of dates and titles or locations On her paintings this canvas an exception 1962 it reads a view from her Lucca studio Across the flood plane of the Serchio bathed in crisp Tuscan morning sunlight 1962 seemed light filled until it wasn’t she crated her paintings sailed home After that November funeral exporting her own paintings back to the states a legal snarl This oil on canvas image bright and airy catches handfuls of promise and light It hangs in my daughter’s living room close to Lake Harriet far from Italy and 1962 Mary O'Hare oil on canvas 1962

My dad built a wooden boat for me when I was five or six. My brother, Tom, and I loved this boat. It was a scaled down version of a standard rowboat. There may or may not be a photograph of us standing next to the boat. Much of my life was spent on the shore of Lake Huron. At that time we actually lived right on the beach but were discouraged by our mother from going into the water without permission. Dad apparently had said nothing about the boat to mom. He built it and gave it to us without her knowledge. He also had grown up on the lake and had always wanted a boat, so why not live vicariously through his boys? I should point out that my father was no older than 27. Mom was 25. As young parents they did not seem to worry about what could go wrong if two little boys dragged the boat, of which my mother still was unaware, down to the water and pushed out into deep water. Dad was at work. Mom was ironing sheets when she noticed the unnatural silence. She called our ...

Plein Air Painting This was their form of Creation: My aunt Mary made her living painting portraits. My Grandmother Rose baked bread and pies. Mary was my mother’s eldest sister, a professional artist, and my role model. Mary, when she did not have a commission, found other things that kept her at the easel: often still lifes and plein air landscapes. Rose was my father’s mom. Her creativity was edible. Until last night I had never thought of Grandma Rose in terms of Art. But, she also painted trees. Each and every tree trunk in her yard: white from the ground upward six feet. Exactly six feet. Without a yardstick. (Conceptual Art in my head alone)

Just 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 th...