Robert Bechtle



61 Pontiac, 1968-69, Robert Bechtle

Robert Bechtle
Robert

The word "ordinary" would seem to be an anathema to artists. Some might even term it an insult. Let me assure you, Robert Bechtle is not and ordinary artist. He's a photo-realist, which means his skill with a brush is anything but ordinary, placing him in the top one-percent of all painters in that respect. Photo-realism was a style which came and went in the 1970s. Bechtle is considered one of its first practitioners. But, as all such passing fascinations are prone to do, it lingered in the work of the best artists of its day. Robert Bechtle was born in 1932. He "came of age" as an artist in that era. But photo-realism is just a style, and perhaps a manner of painting. What an artist does with that style makes all the difference. Bechtle works in charcoal, oils, and watercolor (not an idea medium for a photo-realist). Dozens, perhaps hundreds of artists from that era dabbled in the style, as did I. Like myself, many still do. Most who still do are good, though perhaps in no way outstanding (I'll refrain from making a personal evaluation here). In Bechtle's case, the word "ordinary" applies to what he paints, not how.

 

34th Avenue, 1987, watercolor, Robert Bechtle

Almost without exception, photo-realists choose unusual, colorful, fascinating subjects for their paintings. Audrey Flack goes for vanitas still-lifes (09-04-11). Chuck Close did photo-realistic faces. Richard Estes paints cold, highly reflective, urban landscapes (06-13-13), Charles Bell paints round stuff and toys. But not Robert Bechtle, he paints just "ordinary" stuff. If you live in the San Francisco Bay area, you probably have faded old photos tucked away in an album or shoebox somewhere that look exactly like Robert Bechtle's paintings, which is where he's been known to scrounge his sources. Often, he even resists the urge to correct for things like the aging of color photographic dyes. If Bechtle has a favorite subject, it seems to be old automobiles, though not antique autos or classic cars, just...ordinary...cars, parked in an ordinary manner in front of very ordinary buildings. Sometimes very ordinary people stand in stiffly ordinary poses in front, beside, or behind them.

 

Newsstands, Los Banon, 1973, Robert Bechtle.
Some wit dubbed this one, "Sarah Palin's Worst Nightmare." 

As photos, this ordinary stuff remains very ordinary. But when an artist deems them worthy of his or her time and effort to faithfully, meticulously reproduce them in paint, larger than life on canvas, the ordinary can become quite extraordinary. In general, modern art hates nostalgia. Even a hint of this noxious trait can be the death knell for a struggling artist. No doubt, Bechtle has tasted of that bitter brew during his long career dating back to the early 1960s. Yet he persisted, though his early work was more starkly present-day then. It's us who have aged and become nostalgic. Most ordinary artists would change with the times. Bechtle has also resisted that urge as well.

 

Pool House, 2008, Robert Bechtle

Bechtel admits initially being torn regarding the efficacy of working entirely from photographic sources. However, if one is bent on copying old photos, then doing so with a maximum of verisimilitude is the most artistically honest pursuit. Viewers often, at first glance (sometimes even second and third glance), mistake Bechtle's paintings as enlarged photos. His brushwork is all but invisible. There are the unmistakable compositional similarities to David Hockney, though Hockney is far-removed from a photo-realist. Bechtle's Pool House (above) bears an uncanny resemblance to Hockney's southern California abodes (09-27-11).

Santa Barbara Chairs, 1983, Robert Bechtle painting Robert Bechtel

Working from photos solves many vexing problems for artists; but they also present other problems. Parallax is one (distortion caused by a rectangular picture shot through a round lens). Bechtle corrects such obvious photographic shortcomings. What he does not correct is harsh sunlight, photographic color, inadvertent cropping, bland backgrounds, or random, snapshot-like compositions. Never does he feel the need to "fill up" empty spaces on his canvases simply in the name of making his paintings more than what they are (above). They are ordinary photos copied with extraordinary accuracy resulting in extraordinary paintings. There is no law which says an artist has to begin a painting with a pencil sketch. Bechtle prefers to start with a click of a camera shutter.

Agua Caliente Nova, 1975, Robert Bechtle




 

 

American Impressionism

Ivy League Rowing Regatta, Poughkeepsie, 1914, Reynolds Beal

Ivy League Rowing Regatta, Poughkeepsie (detail), 1914, Reynolds Beal. Note the brushwork. Only the title and the date distinguish it from the French brand of Impressionism.

Today, well over one-hundred years after the style peaked in popularity in Europe, art collectors the world over are still "in love" with Impressionism. Impressionism was not, as many tend to think, limited to just the French and its "founding fathers," Monet, Renoir, Degas, et cetera, et cetera. The English artist, J.M.W. Turner, painted impressionistically a full generation before the French progenitors picked up the style. Of course, Turner was not, technically, an impressionist, but the Franco Prussian War and the French art refugees who landed in England to escape the conflict, planted the seeds of a vibrant Anglo Impressionism there, while the Prussians, in returning to Germany after the war, likewise spawned a Teutonic version of the style. What's missing here? Why, American Impressionism, of course.

 

In the Orchard, 1891, Edmund Charles Tarbell

Impressionism did not come naturally to Americans. There was no winds of war to bring it to this continent (as happened with Abstract Expressionism in the 1930s and 40s). American artists wishing to be impressionist had to go to Europe (Paris, mostly) where they studied with second-rate, second-generation laggards too lazy to move on to anything new. Likewise this troop of Americans found the avant-garde too radical for their tastes, or that of those waiting back home to buy their work. Thus American impressionism came second hand...in some cases even third hand. And, like American ice cream as compared to European gelato, Americanized Impressionism lost much of its flavor during the course of its immigration.

 

The White Bridge, ca. 1895, John Henry Twachtman

This migration westward took hold of no insignificant number of American artists. However, most of them were quite insignificant. Think, can you name a single American Impressionist off the top of your head? If you think real hard, you might come up with the names Childe Hassam, William Merritt Chase, and perhaps Mary Cassatt (sort of...sometimes). Anything more than those, and you really have to stretch the definition of Impressionism. American collectors, like those in the rest of the world, fell in love with Impressionism during the early years of the 20th century, just not with American Impressionism. Why buy American imitations when crate after crate of the real thing arrived at trendy New York art galleries almost daily by transatlantic steamer?

 

Ravine Near Branchville, ca. 1910, J. Alden Weir

That's not to say that all American impressionism was inferior to the imports.  The New York artist, Reynolds Beal (top), is a fine example of one of the best. Edmond C. Tarbell, John Henry Twachtman, and J. Alden Weir (above) are three more like him. We might add to that list Theodore Robinson (bottom) and Frank W. Benson too. However, the one thing all these impressionist artists have in common is that they are not just relatively unknown (as with Child Hassam and William Merritt Chase) but that they are quite unknown, in some cases, not far short of anonymous. Yet their works are outstanding, on a par with those of Monet, Renoir, and the other beneficiaries of the Francophilia we've all come to know and love. Their only shortcomings as impressionists seem to involve their being born too late, and/or on the wrong side of the Atlantic.

By the River, 1887, Theodore Robinson, one of the first American Impressionists.

 

The Detroit Institute of Fine Arts

The Detroit Institute of Fine Arts. Funny, they don't look broke.

Normally, when I write about an art museum, and I've written about quite a few (my book, Art Think, features about a dozen of them), I talk about their holdings, the history of the museum, the building itself, expansions, even the gift shops and cafeterias. I seldom write about their financial situation much beyond the price of admission. Seldom is there any need to. Whether a museum or an individual, one does not go in pursuit of the fine arts with a thin wallet...or endowment. I doubt that it would be news to anyone reading this that the city of Detroit today has a thin wallet--an empty one, in fact. That makes dealing with Detroit museum finances not just important, but in this case, critical. There are actually people who have proposed a billion-dollar garage sale of the museum's holdings (and indeed, the museum itself) under the pretext that people (and particularly their unfunded pensions) are more important than art.

 

Though museum officials once labeled Diego Rivera and his murals as "detestable" in both style and content, his works highlighting the DIA's collection are as much a part
of the "soul" of the city as Motown or the Ford Motor Company.

In the past, money has never been much of a problem for the Detroit Institute of the Arts. Actually, the museum is, today, relatively secure financially, thanks to a ten-year, $23-million per year operating levy, cuts totaling around 25% in their operating budget, and a four-year, $60-million fundraising drive. This, following a major expansion in 2007. But back then, their endowment was some $350-million. Today, as a result of the current economic slowdown, that figure is around $89-million. At the same time, the city, not surprisingly, was forced to cut off all financial support. Despite these difficulties, the museum has obviously been prudent in the face of economic hard times in the Motor City.

 

Andy, Vincent, Pablo--the faces say it all,
illustration by Jillian Pulford

The problem is, the city of Detroit owns the Detroit Institute of Fine Arts--lock, stock, and barrel vaults. That is to say, while the city is quite bankrupt, it is also in the enviable position of sitting on an art collection that alone is valued at more than a billion dollars (not counting the museum itself). And while the institute may be quite financially viable, at least for the next ten years, its owner is an economic basket case. If such was the situation involving some bankrupt financier, the art collection and the mansion housing it, if they hadn't already be sold by the owner, would be lumped in with his or her available assets and seized by the court. However, this is not, Nathan Detroit we're talking about here (Guys and Dolls).

 

Detroit's city officials and museum officials alike may be assuming
the pose of the DIA's bronze copy of Rodin's The Thinker (1902) in
trying to decide what to do. The sculptural icon might not bring much
 at auction, there are 27 others in the world just like it.

The situation is unprecedented (thank goodness). The institute's billion-dollars (or more) in fine art sounds like a lot of money, which makes it a tempting target for politicians. Yet, it pales in comparison to Detroit's $17-billion shortfall. Moreover any benefit to be gained by the city of Detroit in liquidating their art treasure is more theoretical than practical. One does not just dump a billion dollars worth of great art (or even a small percentage of it) on the market and expect to get top dollar. There simply aren't that many billionaire art collectors in the world with that kind of ready cash. Even if you were to add into that mix the dozen or so other world-class museums with that kind of dough who may, in fact, be licking their collecting and collective chops, at the prospect of even part of the museums 60,000 works going up for auction, any mass liquidation would not only be morally bankrupt but economically ill-advised as well.

 

Self-portrait in a Straw Hat, 1887,
Vincent van Gogh, might be the
first great artist to depart Detroit.

The collection of the Detroit Institute of Fine Arts is the sixth largest in the country. It's not the Met, but then again, it's not the Kendall, either. It's about as diverse as they come and broader and much deeper than most. Sure to be among the first to be snapped up by greedy buyers would be the first van Gogh self-portrait to ever find its way into a museum (Self-Portrait with a Straw Hat, 1887), Copley's Watson and the Shark (1782), van Ruisdael's The Jewish Cemetery (1657), Rembrandt's The Visitation (1640) as well as major works by Cezanne, Gauguin, Degas, Velasquez, Jan van Eyck, and lesser works by Rodin, Matisse, Picasso, Seurat, Rousseau... An outraged museum supporter likened such a liquidation to the city of Detroit selling its very soul. Even if some of these wealthy patrons were to purchase such art works themselves, then donate them back to the museum, the institute's collection would take a grievous hit. In a worst-case scenario, it could all be gone in a matter of days. Such a collection took the museum nearly 130 years to amass. Fortunately, the court battle to prevent such a desecration would probably take almost that long.



Thought provoking, cutting edge, profound--the institute's contemporary
art collection would probably be safe from the auction block.

 

Jacopo Bassano

Jacopo Bassano Self-portrait, 1590s

I've often thought I should start a series titled "Artists You've Never Heard of, But Should Have." I suppose, indirectly I have, in effect, already done just that, though without the formality of labeling it as such. In any case, label or no label, Jacopo Bassano fits in that category. Like so many artists of his time, (1510-1592) Bassano was not his real name. Italian artists were as prone to making up new names for themselves as Hollywood movie stars. His real name was Jacopo dal Ponte. Bassano was the name of the town near Venice where he was born. It was also the name he passed down to his four sons, all of whom apprenticed in his workshop, following in their father's footsteps to the point art historians have largely given up decreeing who painted what among them.

 

Bassano is interesting, even important, not so much because his paintings are important. Many are not even interesting, in fact. He painted largely religious scenes with the occasional portrait, classical nude, even dogs, cats, and other noisy neighborhood nuisances. He was not unlike dozens of other 16th century Italian artists, neither better nor worse than most, which makes him quite average--one of the worst things you can say about an artist of any era. Perhaps worst of all, he was a Mannerist. What makes his work as a whole important is that he was such a quintessential Mannerist. The progression of Bassano's work following his apprenticeship with his own father, a minor, provincial, Renaissance artist with something of a Venetian bent, to old age is that it so perfectly charts the Mannerist movement through what is essentially three generations of the same family of artists.

 

Supper at Emmaus, 1538, Jacopo Bassano

In 1538 (at the age of 28), Bassano painted Supper at Emmaus (above). There is to be seen the influence of Parmigianino, Raphael, Titian, Veronese, Tintoretto--a list spanning more than a hundred years. How could one man, especially an artist as insignificant as Bassano, have known all these "greats." The fact is, he didn't. He may have know Titian and Veronese, maybe even Tintoretto, but the real source of all these diverse influences were etched prints (some hand-colored). This type of broad exposure was quite common during the Mannerist era and indeed, an important hallmark of this much-maligned style, perhaps even part of the cause of its "much-malignment." As with too many cooks in the kitchen spoiling the broth, too many influences at the easel muddy the painting.

 

The Last Supper, 1542, Jacopo Bassano--"Gentlemen, could I have your attention?"

That may be a poor metaphor in that Bassano's colors were anything but muddy. His 1542 Last Supper (above) could, in fact, stand a little subtle "mud" here and there. As if his "Technicolor" tendencies weren't bad enough, Bassano here exhibits the Mannerist penchant for "fill-every-square-inch" complexity and overwhelmingly mundane detail. Were there really sleeping dogs, not to mention sleeping apostles, coupled with what appears to be a constant din of ongoing conversation in the upper room the night Jesus decreed the details of his memorial ritual? Were the apostles garbed in 16th century street close exposing shapely legs and sinewy forearms? I rather doubt it. Only Tintoretto is more obnoxious in this regard. This is Bassano's mature style. It's also Mannerism in its maturity.

 

The Baptism of Christ, 1590-92, Jacopo Bassano

Around 1590, perhaps one of his final works, Bassano painted his Baptism of Christ. It's nothing like his earlier efforts. As he grew older, his palette grew darker and more subdued (if not his compositional tastes). We see the influence of Titian and Tintoretto having crept into his work, but more importantly, the first hopeful glimmers of the Baroque. Bassano was among the first to paint nocturnes and scenes utilizing artificial light, a hallmark of the next generation of baroque artists such as Caravaggio. Fifty years is a long period in a man's life and an artist's career. Though a relatively short period in the history of art, even then, fifty years could allow for considerable changes in styles and tastes. Bassano's life's work chronicles these changes (and in some cases the lack of change which bedeviled the Mannerist era). In studying this man's work, forget his name...names (both of them). Think of his work (coupled with that of his father and of his sons, bottom) as a concise Mannerist timeline instead. Okay, you might want to remember one of his names.  In any case, he's very much an artist you've likely never heard of...but should have.

Lamentation over the Dead Body of Christ, 1580s, Francesco Bassano
(the younger, named for his grandfather)--more Baroque than Mannerist.

 

The House that Hope Built

Front, back, inside, or out, even from above, the house ranks far beyond anything Lautner created before or after, or anything else Palm Springs has to offer architecturally.

Several months ago I wrote on "The House that Twain Built" (10-15-12). Before that, I've discussed Jefferson's Monticello (09-15-11), and Hadrian's Villa (09-22-12), or what's left of it. There are probably others, but in each case these artistic/architectural masterpieces involved the happy coming together of two creative minds, the architect's, and that of the man with the money planning to live in their creation. In Jefferson's case they were one and the same. In the case of Bob (the comic) Hope and his wife, Delores, the architect was John Lautner; the place was a hilltop overlooking the Coachilla Valley and Palm Springs, California. This was not the first "house that Hope built." Actually, there was a whole string of them spread across southern California from L.A. to Palm Springs purchased or built as the entertainment icon climbed the ladder of success (there are two other former Hope houses in Palm Springs alone). The Lautner-designed house was not even their primary residence. What they considered their primary residence was a sprawling estate in the Toluca Lake area of Los Angeles, built in 1939. The Palm Springs place didn't come until the late 1970s (a construction fire delayed completion for several years.) The Hopes moved in around 1979.

 



Warm, romantic, strikingly modern, some might even call it other-worldly.

When a personality as famous as Samuel Clemons, Thomas Jefferson, or Bob Hope builds a house, very often they are building a monument to their success and good (or bad) tastes. Unlike many such outstanding architectural masterpieces, the Hope house does not have a distinctive name. It's simply 2466 Southridge Drive. That is, however, the only thing about this property that is not distinctive. It's been called "Space Age," a volcano, and sometimes the UFO house. Hope used to joke that if the Martians ever came down, they'd know where to go. John Lautner designed quite a number of homes, hotels, and restaurants in Southern California. Many are quite distinctive, bearing the Lautner trademark of wide-open spaces and sometimes startling structural features. Many were so futuristic in design as to be used as movie sets. However, with the Hope house, he seems to have pulled out all the creative stops. The only word that even begins to do it justice is "stunning."

Triangulate vaults--the patio skylight in the center is said to be 55 feet in diameter.

Lautner's Hope house is sometimes referred to as the "mushroom house" due to its shape as seen from the air. Though visually exciting from virtually any angle, only from above can one gain some perspective as to the scale, shape, innovative design, and structural dynamics Lautner employed. Hope's choice of Lautner as his architect is, in itself, startling. Hope was a pretty conservative guy in virtually all aspects of his life. Yet Hope epitomized Palm Springs. So did Lautner and his dwellings, which might suggest that Hope initially chose Lautner simply because he was "trendy." Those intimately involved in the project suggest that the house could have been even more radical in design except for one factor. Hope knew how to say "no"...and did. Lautner is said to have grown so frustrated with the project as construction went on, that he distanced himself from it, leaving the finishing details to junior members of his firm.

Glass, steel, reinforced concrete, and a certain amount of daring on the
part of Hope and his architect came together, at least in the all-important
early stages of design and construction. As the song and the oculus
in the roof suggests, "It never rains in southern California."

Used primarily for entertaining (which the Hopes did often), the house was designed as a showplace, and still is, though it's virtually impossible to get close to it on foot. Inside, Lautner's central patio is breathtaking (photos of the rest of the interior seem not to exist). The Southridge community is all hostile desert, irrigated here and there into various shades of grassy green. Lautner's 2466 Southridge Drive is a desert home optimized for a desert environment, elevated above the surrounding landscape with breathtaking views in every direction. As might be expected, no expense was spared in either landscaping or the minimalist interior (minimalism was all the rage in the 1970s).

The most popular view of Lautner's creation is actually in back.

At 22,000 square feet, Hope's desert showplace is one of Lautner's larger homes. “The purpose of architecture is to create timeless, free, joyous space for all activities of life,” Lautner wrote regarding the Hope house. In that light, he succeeded, perhaps in spite of a less than far-sighted client, but also one willing to rein in his more rambunctious architectural tendencies. Many of Lautner's creations both before and after are notably lacking in such restraint. Lautner was one of Frank Lloyd Wright's first apprentices, and the influences are obvious. Second only to Wright's Fallingwater (08-21-11), this is my personal favorite among all those I've ever showcased. Most, even Fallingwater, I would not want to live in (for various reasons). The Mark Twain house makes me shudder in distaste. This one, is the exception. Moreover, it's actually for sale. Linda Hope has it on the market for a cool $50-million.

As was often the case with Lautner's creations, indoors and outdoors
blended into a harmonious whole.



 

 

Top Ten Ways to Know Your Art School Isn't Among the Top Ten Art Schools.

With kudos to the David Letterman team, it's been years since I've made up a "top ten" list pertaining to art. I used to do it all the time.  My book, Art Think, had several. I have to be in the right kind of mischievous mood to make up this stuff...today, I'm in the mood.

10.  The freshman "Fundamentals of Art" classroom is decorated in blue--Smurfs.



copyright, Jim Lane

9.   The figure drawing class involves photographing the model.



8.  The "Advanced Studio Studies" class final exam essay has to do with Thomas Kinkade.

7.  All the books in the school's art library have the pages featuring nude women ripped out.

Michelangelo would
be flattered.

6. Your painting instructor wears an apron featuring the torso of Michelangelo's David.

 



Minimal Art

5. The school's art gallery is hosting a show, "Kasimir Malevich: White on White, a Step Beyond." The walls are empty.

Urinations art

4. The best artwork is to be found in the men's room.

3. More than one member of the faculty have padlocks on their office doors.

2. The course catalog features a class called: "Fundamental Values in Finger Painting."

And the number ONE way to know your art school isn't among the top ten art schools:

1. The sign outside reads, "Collage of Fine Art."

Just kidding.

Balloon Art

copyright, Jim Lane            

A balloon artist aboard the Oasis of the Seas, 2010, handing out her creative gifts.

Is there nothing on earth that some artistic individual cannot magically touch with his or her creative genius and instantly turn into art? From the rostrum of this communications forum I've orated on art made of ice (04-01-13), snow (07-20-13), Legos(07-07-13), food (01-13-11), shrubbery (04-27-13), fingernails (06-01-13), and probably a few others that don't come pouring off the top of my head at the moment. Now, about those colorful, elongated, latex thingies where you turn blue orally inflating them with the ever-present risk that they might literally blow up in your face. I suppose there has been balloon art almost as long as there have been balloons. Perhaps the least of his many other scientific discoveries and inventions, British chemist, Michael Faraday is credited with having invented the rubber balloon in 1824. There's no indication he ever twisted them into cute little critters, though.

 

Balloon Dog (Magenta), 2006,
Jeff Koons, as exhibited at
Versailles. Despite the title, it's
not a balloon.

History doesn't recall who may have been the first "artist" to twist Faraday's rubber bladders into delightful children's toys, but it wasn't Jeff Koons. Besides, Koons creations are, in fact as well as in concept, intentionally imitative studies in banality (right). Moreover, they're actually made of high chromium stainless steel and are not, in fact, inflated at all. Therefore, despite his titles, Jeff Koons is not a balloon artist. Anyway, most such artists are far more skilled and creative. Forget rubber doggies. Forget clowns' handiworks or cruise ship entertainers handing out similar balloon toys to bored pre-teens (top). Balloon art has progressed way past the novelty stage into a respected art form (just don't ever call it "pop" art).


The Airigami version of
VVermeer's masterpiece

Larry Moss and Kelly Cheatle of Airigami, use balloons to recreate painting masterpieces such as Vermeer's Girl with a Pearl Earring (left). Others have depicted such famous ladies of art as the Mona Lisa and Whistler's iconic mother. Additionally artists and designers have utilized balloons in the creation of dresses, furniture, combat weapons, and various eccentric and eclectic modes of transportation. As fascinating as all these might be, the real art genius in balloon art is not imitating other great art or unusable human accessories. Pure art--great art--enlightens, entertains, inspires, and uplifts (especially when filled with helium). The best balloon art does all of these.

Pisces, 2013, Jason Hackenwerth

Jason Hackenwerth does all of that with 10,000 balloons as he interprets the Greek legend of Aphrodite through his abstract sculptural installation titled Pisces (above), which he displayed earlier this year at the National Museum of Scotland in Edinburgh. Balloon artist, William Forsythe, chose to simply create an otherworldly environmental piece with his Scattered Crowd (bottom). He incorporates circulating air, music, dancers, and the viewers themselves into his European traveling show. Balloon art is, literally, a subject to be taken lightly, whether profound, imitative, whimsical, decorative, or a child's plaything. The best part is, this art takes only minutes to learn but years to master...that and a steady supply of deep breaths.

Scattered Crowd, 2002-13, William Forsythe (traveling show)