Maurice Boitel

Maurice Boitel--the Normandy coast, an uncanny resemblance to van Gogh.

Maurice Boitel Self-portrait, 1956

I don't believe in reincarnation. But if I did, the work of French artist Maurice Boitel would be the first evidence I would submit to bolster my sense that he was Vincent van Gogh reincarnated. Actually, I prefer to contemplate Boitel's work in the light that, had van Gogh lived to a ripe old age (into the 1920s or 30s), Vincent's paintings later in life would have been very similar to that of Boitel. That's not to say all of Boitel's work bears the hallmarks of van Gogh. The man was not a copier and I don't think he was consciously influenced by van Gogh. Looking at his work as a whole, one can easily spot other, more direct influences such as Cezanne, Utrillo, Matisse, Dufy, Monet, even Picasso, all of whom were pervasively French. The man did not work in a vacuum, yet it is the fascinating resemblance to the work of a man who lived and died some thirty years before Boitel was born (1919) that is most striking.

 

Quai Fleury à Nuits Saint-Georges (Nuits Saint-Georges et la Côte d'Or),
1938, Maurice Boitel from his La Jeune Peinture period.

Maurice Boitel was born in Normandy, the son of a lawyer, but spent the first twelve years of his life in Burgundy (central France). He showed promise as an artist from the age of five, later studying in Amiens and Dijon. In Paris, he fell in with a group calling themselves "La Jeune Peinture" (The Young Picture) before enlisting in the light infantry at the beginning of WW II. Despite the war, the ambitious young artist managed to successfully pass the highly competitive entrance exam for the École des Beaux-Arts. His Paris studio, located in the central part of the city during the height of the German occupation, secretly served as a refuge for Jews hiding from the Nazis.

The Port of Algiers, 1947, Maurice Boitel--echoes of Cezanne and Matisse. 

After the war, Boitel took his wife and son to Algeria for two years. His exotic work from this period was immensely popular upon his return, his mostly landscape paintings propelling him to the forefront of the post-war art world in France. Unfortunately, that art world was not what it had been before the war. The center of gravity in painting had moved to New York where it remained for the next fifteen years as Europe struggled to right itself from the lingering trauma of German aggression. As a result, Boitel was largely passed over, relegated to the Paris backwaters as Abstract Expressionism soared to its zenith in the U.S. and on the world art scene. Though bedecked with prestigious awards and shows at home, Boitel's work came to be seen as historic rather than cutting edge. Only in the present century, as he moved into his eighties, did Boitel's paintings come to be seen as an important link from the French art world of the early 20th century to that of our own. Maurice Boitel died in 2007 at the age of 88. If only van Gogh had lived so long.

The work of Maurice Boitel today seems quite at home displayed in a rustic French chateau in Boulogne.

 

Aaron Bohrod

Tangerine on a Burlap Ground, Aaron Bohrod, painted life size.

Self-portrait, 1937,
Aaron Bohrod

What do you call a painting that appears to be quite abstract at first glance, but upon closer inspection, turns out to be anything but? You might call it an Aaron Bohrod still-life. In classifying Bohrod as an artist you'd have to say he was a realist. Yet, you might need to follow that with an asterisk. Some of his work (mostly his still-lifes) are often more realistic than they might first appear, while at the same time, other pieces seem less realistic upon close inspection than their first impression might suggest. I might even go so far as to label Bohrod a surrealist--if Salvador Dali had painted still-lifes, they might well have resembled Bohrod's. We're trained to believe that there is a wide gulf between Abstract Expressionism and Realism. Aaron Bohrod's still-lifes would seem to suggest that this gulf may not always be as wide as we might think. In fact, it can be more of a thin line.

Aaron Bohrod, "covering" the war for Life.

Aaron Bohrod was born in 1907 in Chicago, the son of a Russian grocer. He studied at the Art Institute of Chicago and New York's Art Students League. There he was influenced by the Social Realism of John Sloan. In returning to Chicago in the 1930s, he painted urban views, both of the city as well as its working class population. A Guggenheim Fellowship allowed him to travel broadly throughout the Depression ravaged country while also producing work for the WPA. When the Second World War came, he painted for the Army Corps of Engineers in the Pacific, then later as a war artist for Life magazine, eventually finding himself on its cover (right). His paintings of the war are both "gritty" in their combat realism while at the same time often displaying an ethereal element moving them surprisingly close to an anti-war theme (below).

Assault Groups Taking Cover (Rendova), 1944, Aaron Bohrod--combat art, yet still "art."

War and Peace, 1950s, Aaron Bohrod

One of the reasons Bohrod's post-war still-lifes appear abstract at first glance is that they are extremely "busy." This tendency, combined with the fragmentary nature of his tromp l'oel bulletin board items, creates the visual confusion and ambiguity associated with Abstract Expressionism. Photos and clippings are torn and folded, objects broken, text elements are layered one over the other, yet all come together to convey a message, as in his War and Peace (left). Rather than simply viewing the painting and admiring the artist's technical virtuosity, we quickly find ourselves deciphering it, interpreting it, and discovering it, perhaps even pursuing the avalanche of trivia into the deepest reaches of the artist's mind. We see the first steps in the direction of Bohrod's mature still-life work indicated in his plans for a post office mural, in which he combines the Midwestern influences of Thomas Hart Benton with what appears to be some familiarity with Cubism in conveying his History of the U.S. Mail (below) dating from 1933. On the opposite side of the coin, his earlier renderings of the Chicago's back streets, as seen in his Abandonment (bottom, right) displays a strident, stark, quality making them more surrealistic than their realistic first impression.


History of the U.S. Mail, 1933, Aaron Bohrod--
Thomas Hart Benton meets Cubism.

Abandonment, 1930s, Aaron Bohrod--
Dali meets the Depression.

 

Porcelain Sculpture



Liadro Porcelain, Chinese Great Dragon (Red), 2008, Francisco Polope
(he's Spanish, not Chinese)

Probably the most frequently seen form of sculpture in homes today is that of porcelain. Whether it's a cute little bunny serving as a toothpick holder or a delicate, handmade flower (my wife has two of them) this heavily reproduced art form could well be termed "ubiquitous." Porcelain is very much a "look, but don't touch" form of sculpture in which the one word you never want to utter is, "oops." We tend to think of porcelain as being fragile, and in its sculptural manifestations, it very often is. However, porcelain, as ceramics go, is really a pretty tough "cookie." Otherwise, we wouldn't see it used for such utilitarian purposes as toilet bowls and serving bowls. It's not stoneware, but it often serves the same purpose and is a whole lot prettier.

What better use of porcelain china than a thirty-foot-tall Rabbit.



10th century Chinese pitcher.
Though serving utilitarian
purposes, porcelain's natural
plasticity lends itself easily
to sculptural decoration.

As with many other forms of ceramic art, porcelain had it's origin in China (they don't call it "china" for nothing). Experts disagree as to just how far porcelain goes back into the ancient history of that region, but surviving pieces have been accurately dated back at least to the 10th century (left). More modern Chinese porcelain sculpture is, perhaps, less refined, but no less eye-catching as seen in their thirty-foot-tall rabbit (above, don't call it a "bunny") in commemoration of 2011, the year of the rabbit. It's made of 30,000 porcelain dinner plates. Jeff Koons, eat your heart out.

Johann Kirchner's 1732 rhino was inspired by a 1583 engraving by Abraham de Bryn.

A traditional Rococo piece, dating
from 1750-60, either French or German

In western art, when we think of porcelain, we tend to harken back to the highly refined, "fine china" of 18th century France, England, and Germany. The Rococo style lent itself quite naturally to such delicate delights. And, inasmuch as porcelain copies could easily be made in great number from original works, the economics were right for this "household sculpture" to thrive. Check out eBay sometime, you wouldn't believe the prices these little antique masterpieces are bringing. But lest you get the idea that all such pieces from this era were delicate "touch-me-nots," the Meissen (a German company) rhinoceros by J.G. Kirchner (above) dating from 1732 is not exactly what you'd call Rococo. About this time the French discovered that sculpted flowers lent themselves quite nicely to porcelain, though they were usually so complex with any number of delicate "undercuts" they were virtually impossible to cast in making reproductions.

 

An 18th century floral centerpiece

In porcelain sculpture today you'll find few delicate ladies seated in the woods counting petals on roses. You will find, however, lots of lady sculptors working in this medium. I suppose men may lack the refined manual dexterity or the patience (or both) to enjoy such work. And, believe me, it is work, perhaps one of the most technically challenging art forms we know today (certainly insofar as sculpture is concerned). The moistness of the kaolin clay is critical. Drying causes the clay body to become brittle, but excess moisture can easily turn the work to mush. Porcelain is very sensitive in that regard. Firing temperatures are just as critical. Too low, and the porcelain fails to vitrify (become translucent or glassy), too high and the figure will simply melt. (The acceptable range is less than 200 degrees.) Yet, even with these demands and limitations the porcelain works being turned out by artist today are little short of astounding (below).


Inspired by Ovid’s Metamorphosis
--Rachel Kneebone

Handmade on a wheel,
then sculpted--Jennifer McCurdy

 

Johann Karl Bodmer

Interior of the Hut of Mandan Chief, 1833-34, Karl Bodmer

Karl Bodmer, 1877

When we think about the art of the "old west," we conjure up images by American artists such as Albert Bierstadt, Frederick Remington, George Caleb Bingham, and George Catlin. Seldom would we even consider that all the painters of the 19th century American frontier were not native-born Americans. There were more European artists drawn to the romance and challenges of painting wilderness America and its native inhabitants than we might think. And one of the more interesting stories revolves around a Swiss-French artist by the name of Karl Bodmer. And though George Catlin is thought to be the premier painter of Native-American's, Bodmer's European-trained talent in some ways surpasses Catlin's self-taught efforts, or at the very least give the east-coast lawyer turned artist a run for his money. Though Catlin made it to the Missouri River headwaters a couple years before Bodmer, the both crisscrossed the region to such an extent it's a wonder the two never crossed paths.

 

Zell on the Moselle, 1841, Karl Bodmer's Germany.

Bodmer was born in 1809 in Zurich, Switzerland. He began to study art at the age of thirteen with his mother's brother, a noted engraver, who guided his nephew around Switzerland painting landscapes (excellent training for painting the American West). In 1828, Bodmer left Zurich for Koblenz, Germany, where the nineteen-year-old met the German aristocrat and naturalist, Prinz Maximilian zu Wied-Neuwied. The wealthy explorer, known affectionately as "Prince Max," had returned some ten years earlier from having led a scientific foray into the jungles of South America (Brazil) and was eager to take on the prairies of the North American continent. Apparently, the prince and Bodmer were impressed with one another, though it would be another four years before the expedition sailed for America with Bodmer as its resident artist.


Dance Leader of the Hidatsa Dog's Society,
1833, Karl Bodmer

They arrived in Boston on July 4, 1832, just in time for a cholera outbreak. That and other difficulties delayed their progress westward. Six months later they'd made it down the Ohio River as far as New Harmony, Indiana, where the prince held up with cholera-like symptoms. Suffering from "cabin fever" Bodmer decided to move on, heading by steamer south to New Orleans for a week before returning to St. Louis where he once more joined the prince's expedition. From there they headed up the Missouri River, largely by keelboat (a shallow-draft, barge-like craft propelled by oars) as far west as present-day Fort Benton, Montana. Though often painting landscapes along the way, it was the natives which most intrigued the European artist, who had, not only crossed an ocean, but traveled some 2,500 miles across the American continent, a trek far removed from those of his childhood back home in Switzerland. Seldom did his landscapes not include the plains-dwelling natives, principally the Mandan tribe (top) near where the group wintered at Ft. Clark (central North Dakota).


Mihtutta Village, 1834, Karl Bodmer, captures the winter hardships encountered by the natives as well as Prince Maximilian's hearty party of German "tourists."

Bodmer and the prince (Weid) grace the
cover of an 1984 book commemorating the
German scientific expedition.

About the same time, and not far removed from Bodmer, George Catlin was recording in watercolor and pencil sketches the life and times of Native Americans. Bodmer's work however, though encompassing only a few months, appears more adept and possibly more accurate than Catlin's--more in the realm of painted portraits than color sketches. Today we would refer to them as being more realistic, though in the years to follow, seen mostly in printed etchings and book illustrations, the two were considered comparable. Catlin spent much of the rest of his life (he died in 1872) out west, doing what he did best. Bodmer would seem to have been hardly more than a 19th century tourist. Karl Bodmer (who died in 1894) returned home, moved to France, became French, changed his name to Jean-Charles, and settled in with the Barbizon School as they flirted with Impressionism. Though several American museums in the Midwest proudly display his work, Bodmer became best known for the published illustrations accompanying Prince Maximilian's record of his travels.

In his later years, the newly-minted French artist Jean-Charles Bodmer retired to the
"wild frontier" of the Forests of Fontainebleau to paint along side the Barbizon
en plein air artists and the nascent impressionists.

 

Arnold Böcklin



Isle of the Dead, 1880 (first version), Arnold Bocklin.

Arnold Bocklin Self-portrait, 1872

Arnold Bocklin, AKA Art Nouveau

Sometimes, the best that can be said about an artist is that they influenced other artists. Inherent in this accolade is the disparaging implication that the artist's own work was, to put the best face on it, "forgettable." That's probably the case with Arnold Bocklin. No less an art critic than Clement Greenberg said of Bocklin: "{He}is one of the most consummate expressions of all that {is} now disliked about the latter half of the nineteenth century." In other words, influential or not, tastes change. Perhaps that's not surprising, one of Bocklin's chief admirers was the noted German art critic, Adolph Hitler. At one time, he owned eleven Bocklins. In addition to German dictators, the artist also influence composers, most notably Sergei Rachmaninoff and Heinrich Schulz-Beuthen. Both wrote symphonies based upon one of Bocklin's paintings. Moreover, it's not very many artist who can boast of having a typeface (right) named after them, one designed by Schriftgiesserei Otto Weisert in 1904. It's better known by the designation, "Art Nouveau."



Isle of the Dead, Arnold Bocklin,
Versions two through five.

Arnold Bocklin was Swiss, born in 1827. For the benefit of those having the need to categorize any artist who ever picked up a sketch pad, Bocklin was a Symbolist painter. It takes a special kind of person to like Symbolist paintings, especially Bocklin's--dictators, composers, and font designers, among a very few others. Max Ernst and Giorgio de Chirco were influenced by Bocklin. Salvador Dali is said to have liked him while Marcel Duchamp named him as his favorite painter. Upon hearing the artist make such a surprising claim, a listener is said to have asked in disbelief, words to the effect, "are you kidding?" Duchamp didn't answer. Although you would find little obvious Bocklin influence in any of Duchamp's paintings, the French cubist was also into Dada (an anti-art movement) so in a twisted sort of logic, maybe he was serious.

In pop music, recording artists having only major success are known as "one hit wonders." That might well be an accurate label for Bocklin. His "one hit" came in 1880, his Isle of the Dead (top). To call the dark, forbidding island landscape "morbid" would be like calling the pyramids pointed. The painting depicts a rocky inlet in an islet across a broad, dark expanse of water. Deep within the inlet is a cemetery of towering Cypress. A rowboat bearing a coffin approaches the inlet--not exactly living room art. Yet at one time the novelist, Vladimir Nabokov, reported that a Bocklin print of this scene hung in every home in Berlin. Moreover, if you have only one major "hit" as an artist, it's best to make the most of it. Bocklin did. Over a period of six years, he painted five slightly different versions (above, right). While perhaps not a number one hit, Bocklin's 1887 The Homecoming (below) was also said to have been influential, if not exactly popular. History does not recall whether Hitler liked it.

The Homecoming, 1887, Arnold Bocklin, also said to have influenced
Rachmaninoff.



 

 

Silhouettes

Scissors art, AKA silhouettes



A silhouette of Silhouette? Maybe, maybe not.
(date and artist unknown) 

A few weeks ago I wrote on origami (07-21-13), the Japanese art of folding paper in which scissors are forbidden. Today it occurred to me to put in a word for the flip side, what I initially wanted to call "scissors art," though the preferred term still seems be silhouettes. I like my designation better; it's broader and yet more precise. Technically, a silhouette is a backlit image in which little or no detail is visible except for the basic outline. Moreover such images can be created using virtually any method or medium the artist might choose, up to and including merely tracing the figure's shadow cast by a strong light on a vertical surface. "Scissors art," describes precisely the traditional and most demanding method of creating such images, the use of a tiny pair of scissors and a thin, black card relying on nothing more than the artist's expert eye-hand coordination. Now that's a skillful artist. Anyone can draw with a pencil, especially one with an eraser the end, but scissors don't come with erasers. Even a minor error means starting over--perhaps the most unforgiving art form known to man.

 



Hawk in Flight, Dmytro & Juliia

The silhouette described above dates back to around the mid-18th century, back to a time before photography when those wanting small portraits of loved ones were obliged to pay a miniaturist substantial sums for a painted image in oils. Those wishing a less expensive image had to settle for a no-frills shadow profile likeness cut from black paper in as little as three minutes. The cutout was then mounted on a white background ready for framing. The cost in England around 1800 was a half-crown (who knows how much that might be in today's currencies, they don't make half-crowns anymore). The actual name comes from the French finance minister, Etienne de Silhouette (above, right) who, in 1756, was forced to implement budget cuts and tax increases, especially on the wealthy. His name thus became a synonym for anything done cheaply.

 

Entertainment art meets instant art.



The color work of Paperosity
expert, Cindi Harwood Rose

Strangely, miniature portrait painters mostly "bit the dust" more than a century ago (or else they all went blind). Yet today, silhouette artists survive....even thrive. Why? In part at least, it's because they've moved into the realm of performance art, able to demonstrate the precise manual dexterity of a brain surgeon combined with the highly discerning eye of the portrait artist (above). They're a major hit at sidewalk art shows and birthday or wedding celebrations of the well-to-do, entertaining guests or selling their art at art fairs for the same, low, low prices (adjusting for inflation, of course) as their artistic ancestors two-hundred years ago. And, while their forbearers were really quite good at that they did, silhouette artists today have move this art form to the level of really incredibly amazing. Today's silhouette artists are not content to merely cut outlines, but now snip out tiny details in the middle as seen in the Hawk in Flight (above, right). Moreover, they're no longer just tiny, purse-size creations, but now sometimes take on the dimensions of wall-size murals. Likewise, it's not just black on white anymore either. Photos, colored paper, and other backgrounds (sometimes airbrushed) have become popular (bottom). And though faces and figures still form the bulk of what they do, silhouette artists today have spread their scissors to tackle virtually every type of content other artists embrace. And that's a profile on silhouettes.

Silhouette landscape by Guatemalan artist, Aritz Bermudez--literally cut and paste.




 

 

Thomas Bock

Chain Gang--Convicts Going to Work, 1842, Sidney, Australia (not by Thomas Bock).

Thomas Boch, 1847

What happens when a population grows faster than its society can reasonably accommodate? Among other things, one of the primary results is crime--Charles Dickens' England in the 19th century. Actually, the problem began in the previous century. At the beginning of the 18th century England had about six million people. A hundred years later, that number had doubled, one-third of them living in London and southeastern England. Each parish had a watchman but there was no effective police force remotely resembling anything we know today. Faced with urban chaos, the first impulse of the English was to pass lots of draconian laws. Beginning in 1688 until 1815, Parliament passed laws making an astounding 222 crimes capital offenses. Stealing a rabbit could get you a death sentence. However, given the severity of the mandatory punishments to be meted out, the British proved much more adept at passing laws than enforcing them. Unwilling to bear the cost of building and maintaining prisons (which quickly became grossly overcrowded in any case) England turned to a different tact--transportation. In the beginning, that meant to the American colonies, often Georgia (to the tune of around 60,000 convicts). However, after the American Revolution, a new penal dumping ground was needed--Australia. The first batch of 775 convicts arrived in 1786. By 1868 when convict transportation to Australia finally ceased, over 164,000 had been sent there, mostly for relatively minor felonies.

 

Thomas Bock's Alexander Pearce
(after execution),1825. His crime--
he was the last survivor of a group of
English cannibals in the outback.

In 1823, a talented, award-winning, engraver named Thomas Bock was convicted of giving drugs to a young woman. His punishment was to be sent to Van Diemen's Land (Tasmania). It was a life sentence (though he was pardoned in 1832). By the early 19th century, even on outpost islands such as Tasmania, the frontier was becoming somewhat civilized, if not exactly genteel. In the prison colonies, being English, they kept careful records, which, in a time before photography, meant drawn portraits of each convict, especially those who were executed (left). Thomas Bock's considerable talents in that regard were put to use. He also drew live convicts. Later, Bock was one of the first artists in the colony (along with Thomas J. Nevin) to experiment with, and actually use photography in producing his own work. Perhaps he got tired of drawing dead people.

Aboriginal Woman, Thomas Bock

Bock's art was not limited to drawing dead convicts (or live ones, either). He found the native Aborigines interesting, and later in life, made a comfortable living doing portraits. He was the first professional painter in Hobart (capital of Tasmania), organizing that city's first art exhibit. Surprisingly, considering the time and place, Bock left behind a small body of drawn and painted nude figures as well. Much of the artist's work is now lost (or unidentified). He fathered seven sons, two of whom became artists. As artists go, Thomas Bock could not be considered among England's great. At best, he was adequate for his time and place. He played the hand he was dealt and won. For every artist, that's the game we play.



Mathina, 1842, Thomas Bock




 

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