Artist Robert Motherwell
Truthful Fictions
I have gazed into the lions’ eyes; the eyes of the Tsavo lions from Kenya, and the stone Lion of Lucerne have returned the gaze. I discovered a ferocious, stoic presence within those eyes.
Gazing into a canvas of art is like entering a palace of changelings. The best of applied art invokes limitless dreams through a window of unfathomable beauty. A world history of canvases reminds us that we are never truly alone.
I gazed into the eyes of a 25-foot reticulated python, caressing her neck once or twice as she returned my gaze. I have shaken the hands of Hollywood’s Golden Age, and they gazed back in return. I have gazed into the temples of art greatness-Noguchi and de Kooning come to mind. I have walked in the corridors and communities of art history, visiting nearly 1000 artists’ studios, and nearly 100 museums. Faces come at me like ghosts in the daylight. I remember them like the card game War: a game that is not strategically complicated. You flip one towards your opponent, and impatiently wait for the challenging return. My archives house the lives of so many ghosts.
I have experienced a good number of “infectious trifectas”-artists I have photographed three separate times, including Kelly, Lichtenstein, Johns, Botero, Rauschenberg and more. Returning to these familiar landscapes is exhilarating; sometimes a mere few hours becomes a reverie of artful, soulful moments.
The artist Robert Motherwell was waiting for me in his studio. Crossing that threshold was like stepping into a giant diorama. I was the shapeshifter straddling generational worlds that separate ages and movements. My brain became the ball in an arcade pinball game, bouncing from a young burgeoning Keith Haring to Robert Motherwell-from emerging Graffiti art back in time to Abstract Expressionism and Surrealism. Historical entries appeared in my illusory imagining walking with giants.
Artist Robert Motherwell
Robert Motherwell was older than I imagined. Through my cameras’ captures a living embodiment of twentieth-century art history greeted me. in one of two guises: ”Let’s get this over with, or, let’s talk and enjoy the meeting of our decidedly divided ages ”. Fortunately for me, three or so hours flew by.
Just about every artist I met started the conversations with, “I hear you photographed Bill de Kooning”. I knew then that it was a generous calling card. From there, no question whether inane or curious was inappropriate. So after the de Kooning briefing and a few niceties, the great artist took me by the shoulder and escorted me around the studio without a word spoken. I felt as though i was navigating a parallax view. The world and my eyes shifted with different curious pronouncements happening as one.
I spotted a reproduction of his Elegies series. I saw a black painting that reminded me of a Sargent’s Spanish Flamenco series. I asked about the influences. He said, “Maybe we should sit for a while.” He started by saying , “I thought you came here to shoot my portrait.” The Motherwell monologue after that was a great series of run-on sentences.
He spoke about familiar stories-the damnation of being forced to emulate Cezanne in art school. He whispered with eyes looking in many directions, that he might have at times had Sargent in his mind. Then we shifted the conversation to his friendships and my art world captures. We had Kenneth Noland, Helen Frankenthaler, Matta, Clement Greenberg in common. Though as we danced in periods of commonality, we touched on Ernst, Dali, de Kooning and ten more. The hours were a class symposium on thrills and more.
He looked at his watch and I knew a good time, a great education was nearing the finish line…so I began to shoot.
Some artists live their lives in three stages: small and intimate spaces; large spaces to create a larger identity; and a less imposing space that tethers the future and the past. Motherwell in this immense carriage house was in the “tethering” phase-a tremendous home, and an intimate serenade to the past and what may be the future. Connecticut was not Paris or New York. As I caressed his paintings, I felt a dance come over me. Maybe a Maypole, yet a jig nonetheless. Round and round we go, dancing on the moments of space and time. My time will never have a fixed place in history; from near and far it appears like a tiny ball of yarn, unraveling pieces of my history. The passionate sharing between two generations seems quite sumptuous in hindsight.
Artist Robert Motherwell