The Hammock Papers: studios

Showing posts with label studios. Show all posts

29 September 2024

Squints.

Architectural Digest explores Rothko's Seagram's-era studio ...

A visitor walking through Mark Rothko’s former studio will immediately be struck by an ineffability that only appears when entering a sacred space. The floors of the studio look as if a small explosion was set off in the room, caking the wooden floorboards with various layers of colored paint. It’s a fitting floor for the son of Russian anarchists (Rothko’s parents immigrated to America in 1913, when Mark was ten years old). Rothko was extremely voluble when he wanted to be, and if one squints in the studio, the image of a man walking around the space—adjusting his thick-lensed glasses, burning cigarette in one hand, paintbrush in the other, discussing his work with one of his assistants—flashes before them in series of movements.

10 March 2023

Life.

This is the little corner of the world wherein I shall work out my destiny.

N. C. Wyeth

Wyeth had a hand in designing both the house and studio. The house, with its warm brick exterior, “harmonizes absolutely with the landscape,” he wrote. The design, reflective of aspects of local vernacular architecture, was “modest, simple in arrangement,…and homey.” He and his wife Carolyn nurtured a family of five talented children in this delightful home.

The main room of the studio, dominated by an immense three-part Palladian-style window, is a huge cavernous space containing three easels, approximately 900 reference books, and many of the “props” Wyeth used in his work. An early 19th century birch bark canoe hangs from ceiling rafters, and busts of Washington, Lafayette and John Paul Jones peer down from high bookshelves. Here, Wyeth created his iconic visions of knights, cowboys and pirates, painting hundreds of book and magazine illustrations that brought these and other characters to life.

23 October 2019

Wherein.

This is the little corner of the world wherein I shall work out my destiny.

N. C. Wyeth

CONNECT

Don't miss this video.

BARRY HINES

"That's why it makes me mad when I take her out and I'll hear somebody say, 'Look, there's Billy Casper there wi' his pet hawk. I could shout at 'em; it's not a pet, Sir, hawks are not pets. Or when folks stop me and say, 'Is it tame?' Is it heck tame, it's trained that's all. It's fierce, and it's wild, an' it's not bothered about anybody, not even about me, right. And that's why it's great.Look, there's Billy Casper there wi' his pet hawk.' I could shout at 'em. It's not a pet, Sir. Hawks are not pets. Or when folks stop me and say, 'Is it tame?' Is it heck tame, it's trained, that's all. It's fierce, and it's wild, an' it's not bothered about anybody, not even about me right. And that's why it's great." (A Kestrel for a Knave)

WOLFGANG AMADEUS MOZART

"When I am, as it were, completely myself, entirely alone and of good cheer – say travelling in a carriage or walking after a good meal, or during the night when I cannot sleep – it is on such occasions that my ideas flow best and most abundantly. Whence, and how, they come I know not ; nor can I force them. Those ideas that please me I retain in memory and am accustomed, as I have been told, to hum them to myself. If I continue in this way, it soon occurs to me how I may turn this dainty morsel to account, so as to make a good dish of it. That is to say, agreeable to the rules of counterpoint, to the peculiarities of various instruments etc. All this fires my soul, and, provided I am not disturbed, my subject enlarges itself, becomes methodised, and defined, and the whole, though it be long, stands almost complete and finished in my mind, so that I can survey it like a fine picture or a beautiful statue at a glance. Nor do I hear in my imagination the parts successively, but I hear them, as it were, all at once. What a delight this is, I cannot tell."

WALT WHITMAN

The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains of my gab and my loitering. I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable, I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world. The last scud of day holds back for me, It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadow’d wilds, It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk. I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun, I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags. I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love, If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles. You will hardly know who I am or what I mean, But I shall be good health to you nevertheless, And filter and fibre your blood. Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged, Missing me one place search another, I stop somewhere waiting for you.

MARCUS AURELIUS

"Is your cucumber bitter? Throw it away. Are there briars in your path? Turn aside. That is enough. Do not go on and say, 'Why were things of this sort ever brought into this world?' neither intolerable nor everlasting - if thou bearest in mind that it has its limits, and if thou addest nothing to it in imagination. Pain is either an evil to the body (then let the body say what it thinks of it!)-or to the soul. But it is in the power of the soul to maintain its own serenity and tranquility."

VINCENT van GOGH

"What am I in the eyes of most people? A nonentity or an oddity or a disagreeable person — someone who has and will have no position in society, in short a little lower than the lowest. Very well — assuming that everything is indeed like that, then through my work I’d like to show what there is in the heart of such an oddity, such a nobody. This is my ambition, which is based less on resentment than on love in spite of everything, based more on a feeling of serenity than on passion. Even though I’m often in a mess, inside me there’s still a calm, pure harmony and music. In the poorest little house, in the filthiest corner, I see paintings or drawings. And my mind turns in that direction as if with an irresistible urge. As time passes, other things are increasingly excluded, and the more they are the faster my eyes see the picturesque. Art demands persistent work, work in spite of everything, and unceasing observation."

DAN CAMPBELL