German Art

The House of German Art, Munich, 1933-37

About seventy-five years ago, a German government official, in dedicating a new art museum (above), proclaimed:

"To be German is to be clear," and that means that to be German is to be logical and true. It is this spirit which has always lived in our people, which has inspired painters, sculptors, architects, thinkers, poets, and above all our musicians. So today there is not a German or a French art, 'but a "modern art." This is to reduce art to the level of fashions in dress, with the motto "Every year something fresh"--Impressionism, Futurism, Cubism, perhaps also Dadaism. These newly created art phrases would be comic, if they were not tragic."

"But true art is and remains eternal, it does not follow the law of the season's fashions: its effect is that of a revelation arising from the depths of the essential character of a people which successive generations can inherit. But those who do not create for eternity do not readily talk of eternities: they seek to dim the radiance of these giants who reach out of the past into the future in order that contemporaries may discover their own tiny flames."

"These facile daubers in art are but the products of a day: yesterday, non-existent: today, modern: tomorrow, out of date. Theirs was a small art--small in form and substance--and at the same time intolerant of the masters of the past and the rivals of the present. It was only an attraction that these works of art were difficult to understand and on that account very costly: no one wished to admit lack of comprehension or insufficient means! And if one does not oneself understand, probably one's neighbor will not either, and he will admire one's comprehension of obscurity. This House of German Art is designed for the art of the German people--not for an international art."

This came from a debate forum on immigration reform just a few days ago:

"You have two choices going forward. Secession or Civil War. I am good with either one as I live in the southern part of the nation. The part with the food, energy, manufacturing and conservatives. No reason to stay with Liberals. Let them have their states without us to tax to death to pay for their conscience raising crap. Take away all the money from the conservatives states and liberals will be over run with their moochers who will kill them. Make welfare illegal. In a free state and you would clear out all the moochers who would run to an Obamaland. Again liberals would die. Real Americans just need to decide when they are ready and understand we do not need them they need us! For heaven sake people. If nothing else read Atlas Shrugged if you want to see the direction this nation is headed and what YOU can do about it."

Zeichnung-kirche-in-Ardoye-in-flandern, 1917,
Adolph Hitler--more architect than artist.

The first quotation came from a speech by Adolph Hitler. The Second, by someone using the moniker rmiller. Notice any similarities as to thought patterns? Actually, Hitler was someone who knew a bit about art from his younger days as an amateur watercolorist (left) attempting to gain entry into the Academy of Fine Arts, Vienna (which rejected him twice). During those days, Vienna was a hotbed of racial and religious prejudice fed by fears of being overrun by immigrants from the East. Despite this, in rereading the two quotations, it would seem Hitler was the less radical of the two, in words, if not in deeds. In both cases, however, the words are the result of fear and resentment. Both writers feared a foreign cultural invasion and resented sharing their national identity with those fleeing their own. The difference is, Hitler was in a position to do something about it. Let's hope rmiller, whoever that might be, is not.

 

The Judgment of Paris, 1870, Anselm Feuerbach---typical of Hitler's taste in painting.

Anselm Feuerbach, Self-portrait,
1873

Adolph Hitler considered himself an expert connoisseur of painting and architecture. He favored art and artists who were literal, Aryan, sensual (often erotic) and conveyors of the best German culture had to offer in painting, sculpture, literature, motion pictures, and, as he mentions, especially music. One of Hitler's favorite painters, Anselm Feuerbach (left), painted The Judgment of Paris (above). As his rant above, and his 1937 traveling art exhibit, "Degenerate Art" would indicate, he hated Impressionism, Fauvism, Symbolism, Futurism, Cubism, and Dadaism (quite popular in Germany at the time), especially if the artists were Russian or Jewish. His régime worked to stamp out Modernism as surely and as viciously as it worked to stamp out Jews. In the area of music, Jazz was an anathema. Wagner was in, Satchmo was out.

 

World Capital Germania (scale model), 1940, Albert Speer

The Four Elements, Adolph Ziegler,
Hitler's study in the Reich Chancellery.
Albert Speer designed the interior. 

Architecturally, Hitler's Third Reich was Neo-classical through and through, his favorite architects being Paul Ludwig Troost, who designed Munich's House of German Art (top). From the past, he liked Karl Friedrich Schinkel, who had designed the Old Museum in Berlin (1825-28). And most importantly, there was First Architect of the Third Reich, Albert Speer. When Paul Troost died in 1934, Speer became one of Hitler's closest friends and confidants. They were something of kindred spirits, both megalomaniacal in terms of their architectural vision of a new Berlin. Speer's designs, such as the World Capital Germania (above) with its spectacular scale models remained just that. Inasmuch as there was a war on, few of his designs were ever built. He did, however, facilitate the refurbishing of the Reich Chancellery to Hitler's formal, highly conservative decorating tastes in 1939. The building was heavily damaged in the fall of Berlin and demolished after the war.



Hitler's alter ego.

Convicted of war crimes during the Nuremberg Trials, Speer served his entire twenty-year sentence, becoming the last and only prisoner in Germany's Spandau Prison. No building of his design remains in Berlin and only a few interiors survive elsewhere. While in prison, Speer wrote several books on his life and times as part of the Third Reich, his work providing perhaps the most intimate inside peek at the artist/architect/madman for whom he worked. Speer died in 1981 at the age of seventy-six, the last vestige of the art and architecture of the Third Reich.

Hitler's office, interior by Albert Speer.

Speer's main entrance to the
Reich Chancellery, 1939






 

 

Aniello Falcone

A Dead Soldier, 17th century, attributed to Aniello Falcone.

Aniello Falcone Self-portrait, ca. 1620

When I finish a painting, it's always with great relief and a certain amount of pride that I sign my name, "J. Lane," lower right corner, beneath the year of its completion. For future authentication purposes, not only will there no doubt as to attribution, but I'm also creating a accurate, indisputable chronology. Someday before I die, I plan to add various other forms of provenance slipped into the back of all my works. between canvas and stretchers (photos, perhaps a short artist's statement, details as to media, etc.). Experts claim this will add immeasurably to the painting's future worth. It won't matter much to me by then but I'll take their word for it. They ought to know. If all artists had taken just a few of those steps down through the centuries, many authenticators and curators might well be out of a job. For example, take the work of Aniello Falcone.

Battle of the Turks and the Christians, typical of the work of Aniello Falcone.

Rest on the Flight to Egypt, 1641,
Aniello Falcone

Falcone was a fairly mediocre Baroque painter born around 1600, probably in Naples, inasmuch as they named a very crooked street there after him. I say "fairly mediocre" only as compared to the many other excellent artists of that era with whom he competed. He was no Caravaggio, but somewhat better than others of his ilk. He painted a lot of highly detailed battle scene such as The Battle of the Turks and the Christians (above), and a few better than average portraits. He also tried his hand at a few religious works, as seen in his Rest on the Flight to Egypt (right), which is largely where the "mediocre" part comes into play. In case you thought all crucifixions depicted that of Christ, check out Falcone's Crucifixion of Polycrates (below, left). The problem is, the artist was very often careless about signing his works. Authenticators hate that. For years, The Dead Soldier (top) was attributed to Velázquez. But some weren't so sure. The equally Spanish artist, Francisco de Zurbaran, was suggested as a possibility. Sometime during the 1950s, in cleaning and restoring the painting, scholars more or less came to agree that the work was not Spanish at all, but Italian.



The Crucifixion of Polycrates,
Aniello Falcone

Caravaggio's name was mentioned. Certainly whoever painted it knew the work of this painting prodigy from the Baroque era. His influence is noticeable, though the technique does not measure up. The experts decided that if it was an Italian painting, it was probably Neapolitan, which sent them digging through the painting archives for a likely artist from Naples. That's when, around 2008, they settled upon an attribution to Aniello Falcone. The style and color are similar to his work. And certainly, as a battle painter, Falcone painted lots and lots of dead soldiers in his time. There was even the letter "A" near the bottom, possibly part of a long lost signature (later decided not to be the case). Still, some experts aren't satisfied. They point out that Falcone never painted figures on such a large scale (the painting is 66 inches by 42 inches). So, the mystery remains...

Why is all this so important? Why does anyone care? Look at the painting again. Look familiar? Where have you see something like it before? Ahh...Manet...Edouard Manet, The Dead Toreador! Manet's 1864 painting not only bears a strong resemblance compositionally, and as to color, we might even go so far as to say Manet copied (or, at least, was strongly influenced by) Aniello Falcone...or whoever.

The Dead Toreador, 1864, Edouard Manet.
(Compare this image to the one at the top.)

 

Renaissance Cities--Naples

Naples, 1472, the Castel Nuovo is center-left, the Castel St. Elmo dominates
the hill in the center. The waterfront street was the Tavola Strozzi
(long since buried beneath a modern thoroughfare.



The Castel dell'Ovo, on the Island of
Megaride, is the oldest structure in the city,
dating from Roman times.

I've been to Naples, Italy, three times but I've yet to "see" the city. The first time, in 2001, I was far more interested in nearby Pompeii and Capri, just down the coast. The second time I took the day to renew my love affair with the Island of Capri. The third time, a couple years ago, my wife and I took a trip down the beautiful Amalfi coast to Sorrento. All three were quite worthwhile and I wouldn't trade a grand tour of Naples for any of them. Actually, my wife has seen more of Naples than I have (she once took a two-hour bus tour). As Italian cities go, especially for someone like myself mostly interested in art and architecture, Naples is no Rome, Venice, or Florence--not even close. It's a modern, urban metropolis of more than three-million souls, the third largest urban area in Italy, and a major shipping and manufacturing center. It has lots of history, but much of it is buried in a sewer-like subterranean layer dating from Greek and Roman times. Most of the city's Renaissance history the Allies bombed to hell during WW II. Naples was the most heavily bombed city in Italy.

  

View of Naples, ca. 1700, Caspar Andriaans van Wittel

The dome of the Naples Cathedral can be seen
rising above this inland view of Naples by
Caspar van Wittel from about 1700.

A few ancient landmarks have survived, however. They are especially useful in getting ones bearings both in visiting the city and in viewing the topographic landscape paintings of Dutch artist, Caspar Andriaans van Wittel (above and at right) of what was the largest city of the Renaissance era. Historically, a Greek colony on the tiny island of Megaride in the harbor (now connected by a bridge) dates from the 9th century BC. Early Romans "refounded" the city as Neapolis in the 6th century BC. Since that time, amid the rise and fall of the Roman Empire, the Normans, the Hungarians, the French, the Kingdom of Naples, the Sicilians, the Spanish, Napoleon, and the unification of Italy, followed by the aforementioned world war, as well as the periodic ranting and ravings of Mt. Vesuvius...well, let's just say if you were a Roman retiree seeking peace and quiet for your next 2,500 years, the Bay of Naples was definitely not the place to be.


The Naples Cathedral (Duomo) dates
from the latter part of the 13th century.

The magnificent Bay of Naples has, in fact been a double-edged "blessing" for the Neapolitans since the Greeks first took a liking to the place. On the one hand, this huge, natural harbor is undoubtedly the sole reason the city came about in the first place and remains, even today, its greatest asset. However, it has also made the Campania area a ripe and ready prize for as many as a dozen foreign armies seeking a foothold on the Italian peninsula and the rich commerce the city has attracted over the centuries. Actually the Renaissance era was a relatively quiet period in the city's long, turbulent history. After the fall of the Roman Empire in the firth century, first came the Germans, then the Byzantines, followed by the Sicilians. Self-rule came in 1282 as the Kingdom of Naples arrived and survived until, in 1816, when the south of Italy and Sicily were once more united. That partnership lasted until the unification of the peninsula as the Kingdom of Italy in 1871.

Palazzo Reale, 17th century, Domenico Fontana

Castel Nuovo, 13th century, Naples, an
architectural lesson in royal residences.

Architecturally, Naples is the story of one cathedral (above, left), three castles and several palaces built over the centuries to be royal residences as their royal residents grew more and more confident of not being murdered in their sleep. The Roman Castel dell'Ovo (top, left) is the oldest. During Medieval times, ramparts grew lower and thinner. Castel Sant'Elmo (below, right, 1275), high atop the highest hill in Naples, seems more prison than castle (in fact, it was used as a prison until 1976). 


Castel Sant'Elmo, 1275--castle, palace, prison.

Later, slender gun ports gave way to classically ornate walls and windows. Accommodations grew more accommodating as the royal courts grew more and more populous. The waterfront Castel Nuovo (above, left), dating from the 13th century, illustrates this transition with its Medieval towers and crenelated walls sandwiching an ornate, Renaissance era entry gate by Croatian architect, Francesco Laurana. It contrasts sharply with the drab, heaviness of the ancient fortress. The backside of this fortress is the first thing you see when you land in port. Just a block away, to the left, is the Palazzo Reale (above, center) from the 17th century designed by the Italian architect, Domenico Fontana, with frescoes by Battistello Caracciolo, Giovanni Balducci and Belisario Corenzio. It's no Renaissance fortress, but neither is it Versailles. For that you need to travel to the northern suburbs of the city to the Baroque Palace of Caserta (below) with its sweeping royal gardens fit for a Bourbon king...a French Bourbon King, Charles VII, though he never got to sleep there. His son, Ferdinand IV, King of Naples, did, however. Charles VII abdicated before the palace with completed, moving on up to the big time, becoming King of Spain.


The Naples Palace of Caserta Royal Gardens

 

Carel Fabritius

Saskiavan Uylenburgh, Wife of the Painter, Rembrandt, (after Rembrandt),
1651, Carel Fabritius



Portrait of Saskia, 1633-34, Rembrandt

As an art instructor, I can remember only once or twice that one of my students so admired any of my paintings as to want to copy them. Though long a traditional means of learning to paint, today that sort of thing is not done very much. The emphasis is on personal creativity, even among the youngest student amateurs. Such copying, even with the words "after so and so" tacked on following the title, is frowned upon. Despite the attribution, it's considered little short of plagiarism. However, during the 17th century, during the Golden Age of Dutch painting, masters frequently taught their students using their own works as models, not too unlike a student today might draw or paint from a photo. Such student work allowed the instructor to draw precise, one-to-one comparisons between his own painting and that of his student. We are fortunate today to have an example of such an instructional technique in the works of student Carel Fabritius and his instructor, Rembrandt van Rijn. Rembrandt painted a portrait of his beloved wife, Saskia in 1633-34 (above, right). Fabritius made his version around 1651 (top). Of course, painting from a color portrait is somewhat easier than painting from life, but to my eyes, the copy by Fabritius is the better of the two.



View of Delft, 1652, Carel Fabritius--a study in complex perspectives.



Carel Fabritius, Self-portrait, 1650.

Carel Fabritius (left) was born near Amsterdam in  1622, the son of a carpenter (fabritius means carpenter in Latin). As was common practice at the time, the boy first trained to follow in his father's trade. However, around 1640, when he turned eighteen, Carel and his younger brother, Barent, became students of Rembrandt. The portrait of Saskia came near the end of this period. Then, in the early 1650s, Carel Fabritius (the more talented of the two) moved about thirty miles south of Amsterdam to Delft (above). There he opened a studio, and joined the painter's guild. It was the biggest mistake of his life. In fact, it cost him his life. Four years later, on October 12, 1654, a gunpowder magazine near his studio exploded, destroying about a fourth of the city and taking the life of the thirty-two-year-old artist, along with that of his student, Mattias Spoors, and a church deacon named Simon Decker, with whom they were consulting regarding a religious painting.

The Raising of Lazarus, 1643, Carel Fabritius

The Beheading of John the Baptist,
1643-44, Carel Fabritius.
(Is that Saskia in the role of Salome?)

Because of this senseless tragedy, only thirteen paintings by Fabritius are known to exist. Some of them are (not surprisingly) portraits. Others included religious works such as his 1643 Raising of Lazarus (above) and his Beheading of John the Baptist (left) from 1643-44, that had long been finished and were no longer in his studio. Hagar and the Angel (below) is a third religious work by Fabritius from this busy period in the artist's life as he studied under Rembrandt. Although some of the hallmarks of Rembrandt's style and choice of subject matter are present, Fabritius is considered the only one of Rembrandt's students to have veered away from his master in developing a distinctive style.  Despite his short life and still shorter career, Fabritius is said to have been a strong influence upon later Dutch painters such as Vermeer and Pieter de Hooch. In spite of his iconic stature as the best of the Delft painters, and his high-profile religious works, done while studying with Rembrandt, perhaps the artist's most touching portrait is that of an unknown figure, possibly a neighbor, his 1654 Goldfinich (bottom), quite likely his final painting.

Hagar and the Angel, 1643-44, Carel Fabritius
 

The Goldfinch, 1654, Carel Fabritius

Mikhail Evstafiev

Red Avenue, 2005, Mikhail Evstafiev.

Mikhail Evstafiev "Selfie"

Whenever I find an interesting artist to write about, the first thing I do is search for a self-portrait. Nothing is more telling of the way artists see themselves than how they paint themselves. Often I have three or four to choose from done over the course of an entire lifetimes, which are likewise quite telling of how various artists' images of themselves change over time. As difficult as it might be to believe, there are times when a chosen artist simply has never painted a self-portrait. It's then I have to rely on photos taken by others. When I decided to write about the Russian artist, photographer, and journalist, Mikhail Evstafiev, I was dismayed to find no self-portraits, no photo portraits, and only one image at all of the man. The Internet yielded up dozens of portrait photos by Mikhail Evstafiev (mostly Russian or international newsmakers) but only a single snapshot "selfie" of the artist--a cellphone mirror shot both by and of Mikhail Evstafiev (above, right).

 

The Red Syndrome, Moscow, 1990s, Mikhail Evstafiev--Communism dying hard.

I have not chosen to highlight Mikhail Evstafiev as a painter. In that regard, he's no rank amateur, but works such as his Abstract Expressionist urban landscape, Red Avenue (top) from 2005, could have been (and were) painted by hundreds of other artists more than fifty years ago so, he's by no means cutting-edge. In today's international world of art there is no acute shortage of abstract expressionists. As an artists, Mikhail Evstafiev is much more outstanding as a photographer--an art he learned from his father. As a journalist, Evstafiev has lived amidst, and seen up close, one of the most historic eras in his nation's history--the Soviet war in Afghanistan, the war in the Balkans, the fall of the Soviet Union, the rebirth of the Russian nation--all in just the past forty years. His photography is about one-third news, one-third history, and one-third art. The list of those coming before his camera includes Alexander Solzhenitsyn, Mikhail Gorbachev, John Kerry, and Dmitry Medvedev, not to mention those fighting daily in the seemingly unending conflicts he's witnessed during his career.

God decides how long your life is, but you decide how wide it is.--Mikhail Evstafiev






Sarajevo, 1992, Mikhail Evstafiev


Born in 1963 into a Moscow family of Russian sculptors (his mother, grandmother, and great grandfather), young Mikhail grew up steeped in the fine arts, his hands stained with clay and oil paints. But it was photography and writing that captured his youthful ambitions. In the mid-1980s, Evstafiev graduated from the Moscow State University with a Master’s degree in International Journalism. He caught a job working the TASS News Agency. From there, the action took him to the Soviet debacle in Afghanistan where he spent two years treading the dangerous line between the Soviet, generals, Russian troops, and the various warring factions on the other side of the street. After the Soviet withdrawal in 1989, Evstafiev returned home to write a novel about the experience, Two Steps from Heaven.

Vedran Smailovic, Sarajevo, 1992, Mikhail Evstafiev

Barocoa School, Cuba, Mikhail Evstafiev

In the years that followed, Evstafiev was on the journalistic front lines during the early 1990s as the Soviet Union ripped itself apart at the seams, followed by conflicts in Bosnia and Herzegovina, Chechnya, Georgia, Nagorno-Karabakh, Tajikistan and Transdniestria (wherever that might be). In his spare time he wrote more books and painted pictures while writing and directing documentaries, including an ongoing film project "painting" a portrait of Cuba (left). Now living in Vienna, Austria, with his family in semi-retirement, Evstafiev gives most of his time to the career he might have had as a painter had he not found more interesting things to do watching wars snapping politicians.

Me, Studio, Mikhail Evstafiev. Photographers are often camera shy.

 

 

Philip Evergood

American Tragedy, 1937, Philip Evergood--The Memorial Day Massacre

Philip Evergood, Self-portrait, Such
Stuff as Dreams Are Made on, 1956

My parents were teenagers during the Great Depression of the 1930s. It had a profound effect, not just upon their lives at the time, but upon the very way they thought, their whole attitude about life for the rest of their lives. My father had only two employers his entire life. My mother could manage money with such a degree of finesse, whether a little or a lot, there was never a penny wasted. Yet she would go shopping and buy simple commodities whether she needed them or not (usually not) just for fear of running out. After she died, we found accounts in as many as ten different banks. We found records where she had routinely obtained and repaid loans from banks for sums as little as $50. She was fond of sewing identical mother-daughter dresses (my sister hated that). My father had a sizable garden in the back yard from which my mother canned the produce for years after it was no longer very profitable to do so. I hoed the corn (I hated that). Philip Evergood was an artist, a product of the Great Depression--one of many. Today we can see and even feel through his eyes this tragic decade in American history. His most famous painting, American Tragedy (above) from 1937, depicts the social nadir of the era with a stark, Expressionist impact no Realism painter could have touched.

Sunny Side of the Street, 1930s,
Philip Evergood (sunny version,
based upon the popular song).

The less sunny Sunny Side of the
Street.  Same painting, different
photos. Which is accurate?

Philip Evergood was not his given name. He was born Philip Howard Francis Dixon Blashki in 1901, almost a full generation older than my parents. For those born in the early decades of the 20th century, the Great Depression was especially horrendous. He'd known better times. Young Philip grew up in New York City, in a prosperous, middle-class, English/Australian family. He studied music starting in very early childhood. He was an accomplished pianist by the age of seven. He went to a private boarding school in England (Eton), and eventually ending up studying at Cambridge. He left there to study art in London under Henry Tonks followed by a stint in Paris at the Academie Julian. In 1923, when Evergood (he'd legally changed his name by then) returned to the U.S. to try to make for himself and a career as a painter, even during the relative good times of that era, life as a 22-year-old fledgling artist was difficult. He continued his studies at the Art Students League, often having to choose between buying paint and food.

The New Lazarus, 1927, Philip Evergood--not exactly "roaring 20s" art.

Music, Philip Evergood--closer to the spirit of the 20s, but more likely from the 1930s.

Pittsburgh Family, 1944, Philip Evergood.

During the early 1930s, Evergood was rescued from "starving artist" status by the fabled art collector, Joseph Hirshorn. But even then, the WPA artist program starting in 1934, was a welcome relief, allowing him to paint murals in nearby Queens and as far south as Jackson, Georgia. From that point on Evergood developed a social consciousness, influenced by such diverse artists as El Greco, Bosch, Brueghel, Goya, Daumier, Toulouse-Lautrec, Sloan's Ashcan School, his work varying from Social Realism to Expressionism depending upon the subject. In a sort of combination of the two styles, his American Tragedy (top) reflects his outrage following the 1937 Memorial Day Massacre in Chicago when police shot and killed ten unarmed striking steel workers. Thirty were injured, many permanently. In the years during and following WW II Evergood continued to be a shrewd observer of American life and times. His painting from 1944 The Pittsburgh Family (left) captures the wartime angst of love amid uncertainty, coupled with the hope and joy in the earliest onslaught of the baby boom.

Bridge of Hope, 1940s, Kalamazoo University, Philip Evergood.
Notice the bridge portion of the mural is either damaged or was left unfinished.

During the return of peace and prosperity following the war, Evergood likewise thrived. His dining hall mural at Kalamazoo University displays a bright hope for a better tomorrow typical of the post-war era. He continued teaching both music and art (schools love double majors), moving to Southbury, Connecticut, and later to nearby Bridgewater where he was killed in a tragic house fire in 1977.





 

Eamon Everall

 

The Marriage, Eamon Everall. Van Eyck would probably not be pleased.
Picasso would probably have a good laugh, though.

Stuckist Artist, Eamon Everall.
Though not "officially" listed at a self-
portrait, the likeness is unmistakable.
So is the likeness to Vincent van Gogh.

In today's art world, art movements come and go as fast as taxis in and out of SoHo (take your pick, London or New York...or even Miami's SoBe). But there is at least one group which, from what I've seen, has legs. Eamon Everall is one of the twelve original members of a London (now international) group calling themselves Stuckists. Everall's terms his work "Neo-Cubism." As such, it goes without saying he owes a great debt to Picasso, but there are also elements of Cezanne (below, an early Cubist influence) and Miro, with color by Matisse. Content is borrowed from Jan van Eyck, Jan Vermeer, Manet, de Chirico, and van Gogh (as seen in Everall's self-portrait, right). The in-your-face attitude is all his own (though the group shares it with one another on occasions). It's a startling indication of how far Modern art has come (or gone) that Cubism is now considered traditional and therefore ready for the "neo" prefix. I suppose that would officially make it Postmodern. Stuckism, and Everall's work in particular, might be deemed a reaction not too unlike that of the Pre-Raphaelites to the first stirrings of Modern art over a century ago.

 

Candy Stripes, Eamon Everall--Cezanne with a touch of Lichtenstein.

Millennium Temple, London,
2000, Eamon Everall.

Eamon Everall is a struggling young artist (well, not so young, anymore, he was born in 1948). He's highly educated, highly intelligent, highly motivated. Like many of his colleagues in the Stuckist movement, he's not yet made a name for himself. He's no Damien Hirst, Tracey Emin, Chris Ofili, or Mark Leckey, a comment he'd, no doubt, take as a compliment. The Tate is not eyeing his work for possible acquisition. In the "struggling young artist" mold, Everall has worked as a boatman, a postman, a dustman, also a repairer of musical instruments, a builder's assistant, an antique fair promoter, and now as an art lecturer and painting tutor. He's even tried his hand as a sculptor, commissioned by a local city council in London to create a millennial monument (left), as well as smaller pieces for Stuckist-friendly London galleries. Everall lives and works out of his East London studio, painting full time, practicing Buddhist meditation, and subtle self-promotion.

Mother and Child, Eamon Everall.
Neo-cubism does not attempt to out-paint Picasso, only reflect his insights.

Folkestone 1, Eamon Everall
--echoes of Cezanne's Cubism,
but also de Chirico's Surrealism.  

Everall's work is vivid, sometimes humorous, linear, with the total disregard for perspective and an emphasis on multiple viewpoints traditionally associated with Cubism (above). Everall's problem in gaining recognition for his work is that his style, his medium, his content, are far from the cutting edge art well-heeled collectors pursue today. Cubism is a hundred years old. Picasso has been dead now for more than forty years. Some, myself included, have now proclaimed painting as having died with him. And if not quite dead, then it has certainly become an antique art form. The Turner Prize shock/schlock art is all the rage. The Stuckists (and presumably Everall) are dead-set against this type of thing; thus they and their work struggle to compete, not just with the conceptual work in London's high-end art meccas, but with that art already enthroned amid minimalist splendor in the Tate's Bankside Modern Art mausoleum.

The Artist's Studio, Eamon Everall--if Vermeer had been a Cubist...and painted nudes...