Remembered Magic Trick I used to know a magic trick: how to open things that cannot be opened in particular dried watercolor paint tubes screw caps welded in place decades ago the interior contents long turned to jolly stones of brilliant color The trick still works: you light a match and slowly rotate the cap end like a chicken on a spit and in no time the heat loosens the cement that had frozen the cap into a permanently sealed condition the cap spins free and the pigments see the light of day I dip a saturated brush into the opened vault and a flood of Rip Van Winkle color awakens onto a new white sheet. Old magic tricks can still amaze me. Remember the vanishing birds? Let's see if the salt trick still works.

Reassembled Shards The imagery on the exterior is what most visitors to the Louvre look at Do they imagine these terracotta vases as a box of shards? The shattered remains of a three dimensional puzzle Lost fragments extrapolated That the conservators who restored the object left Fault lines and the craze of shatter points visible on the interior Gives me a thrill like being backstage To see the woman sawn in half

Two Campbell Soup Cans We sat in the cheap seats, way out in center field, in the peanut gallery. At least we could say we were at the game, although in order to have a sense of what was going on, we watched the scoreboard and cupped our ears to listen to the tinny sound of the play-by-play on a transistor radio in the hands of strangers seated nearby. Those same strangers wore proper baseball caps and, while they held their radios aloft to get the best reception, used field binoculars to view the ballplayer spitting tea color tobacco juice. I brought no radio or binoculars. I wore an old, too small, wool ball cap. In my hands I watched the distant action through two empty Campbell soup cans, glued together with baseball gum.

Left Handed Student The classroom was designed to hold 24 students. We don’t count the teacher or his desk, yes, his desk. He taught high school math. This was not the brainy class, just your basic, shall we call it math for non-math majors? Most of these young people would not be taking the SATs. They would find jobs, right after graduation. His job, as he saw it, was to help them balance a check book and plan to live on a budget. His classroom had 24 desks for 24 students. While at that time in history there was no particular sensitivity to what we call politically correct, the chairs seemed to be ahead of their time. They served all who would sit in them without bias. The only consideration that those who ordered student desks had was in having the correct percentage of left and right desks. It was a math problem. It was a real-life math problem. If the general population is half male and female and if a greater percentage of males are left hand dominant, how many l...

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...

Three Portraits Two Finished My aunt Mary painted my portrait at age six again at 21 for a lithograph and wanted to paint my portrait as an old man She said “ Come back and sit for me one more time ” I put it off and now it is too late But, seriously, I can’t sit still for long for any reason: I have my own painting to do

Boats To Sail Away Upon He joined the Navy He’d grown up next to the lake It seemed natural He wanted to sail the world Took a train to Chicago A bus to Oklahoma He somehow made it To San Diego and saw The surf wasn’t like the lake Still he wanted to sail the Seven seas and projected His dreams on me When I won another Boy Scout Merit badge he said: I could be a Naval officer I should go to Annapolis Be an man in a starched Suit saluted all day Dad, they don’t need artists In the Navy, sure, I could Sit on deck and paint Watercolors all day, I’d never run out of water. Forget that saluting. But I will tell you something: My boats won’t be thick steel Painted battleship grey I will ride a ship with blue sails And sit by a boat basin And watch sailboats all day And if you want I’ll write a story about you falling out of a boat. It will make you smile. (for my dad, on his birthday)

Naked Farmers On Tractors Farming in the nude became a local fad after old mister Kuharchik bent over behind his big, red McCormick, while it was still idling. He attempted to clear away something that had wrapped around the PTO, the slowly spinning rod that supplied power from the tractor to the brush hog. He'd been farming his entire life and was well aware of the safety rules written for city slickers. Rule number one: turn off the dang thing before tinkering with spinning parts. Turning equipment off and back on again was a complete waste of time, he always said. Being it was a spring morning he wore a jeans jacket over the same red flannel shirt he'd pulled over his head, to avoid buttoning or unbuttoning it, that he'd worn every single day for the past month. His wife refused to allow him inside with that shirt, which she claimed should be fed to the pigs. In reaching down to remove the tangled mass of knotted weeds that was spinning slowly around the p...

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

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...

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...

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