an analysis and interpretation of my paintings and prints

Leonardo

An Analysis and Interpretation of My Paintings and PrintsAuthor(s): David ShapiroSource: Leonardo, Vol. 12, No. 1 (Winter, 1979), pp. 14-18Published by: The MIT PressStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/1574077 .

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Leonardo, Vol. 12, pp. 14-18 Pergamon Press, 1979. Printed in Great Britain.

AN ANALYSIS AND

INTERPRETATION OF MY

PAINTINGS AND PRINTS

David Shapiro* Abstract-The author analyzes his paintings, lithographs and woodcuts and states that they are realistic, although not naturalistic, and that they represent an attempt to express his feelings and responses to life. The places, objects andpeople that appear in his work, however, are imagined rather than particular.

He explains that color is of primary concern to him, yet he continues to make black-and-white prints. He describes the procedures and techniques he uses in painting and printmaking and explains why his subjects and themes in printmaking usually differ from those in his painting.

Recently he has begun to write about art. His book Social Realism: Art as a Weapon (New York: Unger, 1973) is on the social realist movement in the U.S.A. in the 1930s, and his long essay, Abstract Expressionism: the Politics of Apolitical Painting, in Prospects 3 (New York: B. Franklin, 1977) explores the political and social origins of this nonfigurative style between the 1930s and the 1950s.

I.

My painting is realistic, yet it is a direct expression of my feelings-primarily about nature in its various manifestations. It may seem more abstract to viewers than what one would generally term 'realistic' painting, since many people confuse realism and naturalism. To me, however, my pictures are of the real world as I interpret it.

I am interested mainly in color, which I use arbitrarily more often than naturalistically. I try to capture either the essence of a landscape or my reaction to it, but I do not aim for an objective reproduction of it. I am surprised when a painting closely resembles an actual scene, and I am equally astonished when the depiction becomes so highly abstract as to become almost entirely nonfigurative. I do not know how or why these transformations occur.

I frequently begin a painting without a preconceived plan and without preliminary sketches-I begin with nothing more than the idea, for instance, that I want to paint the way the mountains feel to me or the way the Sun illuminates a grassy meadow. Perhaps I can best describe my work as realism that is not objective.

My painting is analogous to reality in that it uses enough recognizable imagery and symbolism to

*Artist and Teacher, 124 Susquehanna Ave., Great Neck, NY 11021, U.S.A. (Received 28 Nov. 1977.)

seem to reflect the objective world, but I have not been interested in naturalistic or precise repre- sentation of what I have actually seen. My figure paintings, for instance, cannot be construed as attempts to make flesh and blood representations of actual human beings. They are different in many ways. At some periods the figures seemed more like those executed with leaded pieces of stained glass. I painted 'Vox Populi' (Fig. 1) in 1961 after reading in the newspapers that some residents of a white neighborhood had set fire to the house of a newly arrived black family. The painting reflects my reaction to the cruelty and banality of those who committed the vicious act.

Fig. 1. 'Vox Populi', oil on Masonite, 89 x 96.5 cm, 1961. (Photo: Jerry Schur, New York)

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An Analysis and Interpretation of My Paintings and Prints

Fig. 2. 'In the Mid-day Air', tryptich, oil on masonite, 60.5 x 183 cm, 1969. (Photo: Jerry Schur, New York)

II.

During the period between 1951 and 1969 my paintings were constructed by means of a linear structural skein, a scaffolding on which the depiction was formed. The shapes became re- ceptacles for color, which gave them meaning as well as form. The painting shown in Fig. 2, painted during a visit to Mexico in the summer of 1969, is one of the last of these. I tried to give an impression of mid-day heat by means of warm yellows, oranges and red purples and to convey via color and design a sense of quiet and somnolence. Not long thereafter I discontinued using line for construction. Rather, line was used as the counterpoint to color, making the work appear more nonfigurative. Yet, at the same time, the shapes moved closer to actual or natural shapes. But even when they seemed most 'real' in relation to the natural world, they were not painted from nature, nor were they of scenes I

Fig. 3. 'An Autumn Mood', oil on Masonite, 122 x 91.5 cm, 1976. (Photo: Eric Pollitzer, Hempstead, N.Y.)

remembered or had actually observed. Color was allowed to flow outside shape into other areas. The sky and trees and even the hills in a landscape might be painted with variations of related colors. Or the sky and trees, for example, might be painted in variations of one color.

I use color to establish a point of view, an atmosphere, a reality, an emotion. I rarely use color descriptive of things actually seen. 'An Autumn Mood' (Fig. 3) is an example of this approach. It was painted toward the end of the summer of 1976 while I was thinking about approaching autumnal changes in Vermont, where I go in the summer.

Yet, I do not think that one can escape the appearance of the actual world. Some of my work has been seen by others as unrelated to the real world, but it seems to me that the real world does show through. It is there in one way or another. I have not been what some call a 'non-objective' artist, because my own sense of rational being demands that I be contained within the real world. Even on an airplane at night, when I cannot see anything, I know I am in an airplane above a particular place. I know that there is a real world beneath the wings. A sense of reality, to me, involves 'holding on'. So, too, in my painting, I hold onto the real world, to things as they are.

III.

Even though color is my primary obsession, I have continued to make black-and-white prints, especially woodcuts. Few of the black-and-white prints are landscapes, although a print entitled 'Winter Walk' (one of a related series), reproduced as a greeting card by the United Nations Children's Fund (UNICEF) in 1975 and 1976, shows a lone human figure in a snowbound landscape. But, on the whole, the black-and-white prints are almost entirely figure pieces, while, conversely, I have not made a painting using the human figure in the last eight or nine years. Somehow, for me, the graphic media involve a concern with human activity. The 'Mourners' (Fig. 4) is dedicated to the victims of the Nazi Holocaust. It was also a response to the death of my mother shortly before I made the woodcut in 1956. Portraits of both my mother and grand- mother surfaced in the print without my conscious

15



David Shapiro

Fig. 4. 'The Mourners', woodcut print, 46 x 82.5 cm, 1956. (Collection Smithsonian Institution, Print Room of the New York Public Library) (Photo: Eric Pollitzer, Hempstead, N.Y.)

intent. The woodcut 'Flower Children' shown in Fig. 5 was made 20 years later, and it is one of a series titled 'USA: the 1960s',which I produced in 1976 while a Fellow at the Macdowell Colony in New Hampshire.

In 19761 also received a grant from the Tamarind Institute at the University of New Mexico at Albuquerque to work there for two months in lithography. I had not made any lithographs since I was commissioned to make two for Litografia Internazionale in Milan, Italy, in 1970. A collection of the 'Mountain Suite' series that resulted from my stay at Tamarind has subsequently been shown in several museums and university galleries in the U.S.A. under the sponsorship of the Associated American Artists Galleries [ 1]. Editions of my prints have been published in New York City by Associated American Artists Galleries, Brentano's and Original Prints Graphics and in Baltimore, Maryland by Ferdinand Roten Galleries.

When making lithographs I find color a more important element than it is for me in woodcuts. This was especially true at Tamarind, where I worked out a technique that allowed me to use the same two or three plates again and again to obtain various effects, so that by means of color variation I could change the same picture, for instance, from season to season, or change the entire mood or feeling of a picture.

It was in terms of textures, however, that I was able to make some lithographic innovations that were particularly satisfying. I used the stencil brush to paint with acrylic paint onto areas of the metal lithographic plate. Then a new surface could be provided on the painted areas by means of the textures found in such materials as newsprint, Radar and watercolor paper. Each sheet of paper selected was placed on a smooth surface. Then a large roller charged with ink was rolled over it by the printer until she was asked to stop. The texture that became visible resulted from the irregularities inherent in the manufacture of the paper, the density of the ink and the surface of the roller.

The textured paper was then cut to conform to the shape of the acrylic-painted portion of the lithographic plate, and then it was placed over this portion of the plate. The remaining areas were

Fig. 5. 'U.S.A. the 1960s: Flower Children', woodcut print, 51 x 76 cm, 1976. (Photo: Eric Pollitzer, Hempstead, N.Y.)

masked with gum arabic, so that the texture would be transferred to the required portion only. The plate was then processed in the usual manner. This transfer of texture from paper to the paper on which the lithograph was printed was important to my attempt to make lithographs with glowing color. Because the white of the paper is allowed by the textured ink to shine through, the effect aimed at was achieved.

IV.

I generally begin a painting with an idea but not with a plan of execution or even a clarified depiction. As an example of how I work, in my recent series titled 'Trees and Mountains without End' I did not mentally visualize the appearance the pictures were going to have. I knew only that the idea of trees-and-mountains-without-end intrigued me, as it still does. The idea stems from my frequent view of the mountainous landscape from my house and the studio in Vermont, where I spend the portion of each year during which I am not teaching at Hofstra University at Hempstead, New York. I have completed three paintings of the series, each in the tryptich format.

As can be seen in Fig. 6, mountains occupy most of the surface except for a stream at the bottom and some sky at the top. The colors are blues and greens. The second tryptich (Fig. 7) is similar in content except that the mountains are depicted as seen from a greater distance, and the colors are reds, oranges

Fig. 6. 'Trees and Mountains without End, No. 1', tryptich oil on Masonite, 152 x 366 cm, 1977. (Photo: Eric Pollitzer,

Hempstead, N.Y.)

16



An Analysis and Interpretation of My Paintings and Prints

h ^ , : II It : x::,J S .. ...... .. .. .

. .::':::.,:: ... -...P '

Fig. 7. 'Trees and Mountains without End No. 2', tryptich, oil on Masonite, 122 x 274 cm, 1977. (Photo: Eric Pollitzer, Hempstead, N.Y.)

and yellows. The third one (Fig. 8, cf. color plate) shows range upon range of mountains, 12 in all, with a line of trees along the stream and the greens and blues more subdued. Little black appears in any of these paintings, and I have used line very sparingly. These paintings indicate that my work may be taking a new direction, since heretofore I used lines not only to outline shapes as counterpoint to color but also as an independent calligraphic element.

Although I do not have a preconceived plan for executing the chosen content of a picture, once I place a few lines or colors on the pictorial surface the direction of its development is called forth. These first steps might be called 'gestural' or 'automatic' painting, but the succeeding steps are made quite consciously, for after the first ones I begin to visualize the picture I want to make. True gestural painting, as I understand it, involves repeated, deliberately unplanned or automatic strokes that an artist eventually decides have led to an aesthetically satisfying picture. I do not work in this way, although my first steps are similar. And frequently when a subject or a theme impels me to continue working with it, a series of paintings develops. Each preceding one triggers the variations in the next one, though each painting will be recognizably different.

In 1977 I began a series of paintings I call 'First Sunshine after Rain'. So far I have painted six pictures in the series, which deals with the idea of the Sun breaking through an overcast, pushing rain aside. Each picture develops the idea in a different mood.

V.

During the last few years my work as a painter has rewarded me with joy, great joy-far more than ever before. I no longer feel any compulsion to deal with political issues or social criticism in my paintings, although these concerns continue to surface now and again in my woodcuts (as in the

'USA: the 1960s' series). But in painting I keep returning to nature, and when immersed in nature I have no darker moods, no anxiety about either the human condition or my own work. Some viewers of my paintings done during the last decade tell me that they transmit a sense of joy, of delight in life. But whatever the effect on those who look at them, the paintings themselves are made in joy.

If I had done only woodcuts and no paintings or lithographs, I might be categorized, as some art writers and critics have done, as an artist of social realism or of social protest, even though fewer than half of the woodcuts deal with social themes and an even smaller proportion of the paintings could be so designated. (A recent example of social thinking can be seen in the woodcut 'We Bear Witness' (Fig. 9), which I made after seeing a case filled with mummified human bodies in the cemetery at Guanajuato, Mexico. They brought to mind remembered news photographs of Nazi con- centration camp victims.) Social themes rise up and demand my attention in part because of my fear that humanity will destroy itself. On the other hand, despite my realization that nature is oblivious to the survival of any living species, I feel more at ease with it than with the world produced by humankind.

Fig. 9. 'We Bear Witness', woodcut, print 61 x91.5 cm, 1975. (Photo: Eric Pollitzer, Hempstead, N.Y.)

17



David Shapiro

This is one of several reasons that at no time during my art career could I be simply and con- veniently categorized as belonging to any particular group or art movement.

I admire tremendously a wide range of artists, and I am sure that many of them have influenced me. Among the 20th-century artists I have found most consistently compelling are Picasso, Orozco, Kandinsky and Klee. The artists in my country whose concepts have influenced me most are Arthur Dove, Georgia O'Keefe and Charles Burchfield, for they have tried to express visually the essence of things that I, too, find important.

VI. I prefer to paint on Masonite rather than canvas

because the flexibility of canvas disturbs me. I prepare the Masonite either by applying several coats of white shellac or four or five coats of gesso to the smooth side. I then paint on this surface with oilpaint, usually unmixed and taken directly from the tube. I rarely overpaint or glaze. Rather, I develop nuances of color and varied textures in the process of working the first application of paint onto the prepared surface.

I often start a painting with a pencil or a piece of chalk, making free, sweeping gestures. When I am satisfied with what I see, I may spray the drawing with a fixative or retouch varnish. The drawing, which usually consists of only a few, amorphous lines that could have meaning only to me, serves as a basis for the 'development of shapes, colors and mood. I dab with the brush instead of stroking, which has been my way of applying paint for the last 20 years. By applying paint in quick, light pats, tiny hillocks of paint are formed, reflecting light in a way that produces an effect that pleases me.

For many years my paintings were restricted by the size of my studio to a width or height of about 120 cm, but now I have a studio in which I can work on panels with dimensions up to 360 cm. I do not think that my recent large paintings are necessarily larger in scope than the earlier ones, but I am sure that a large painting imposes on viewers a different visual experience. Viewers looking at a small painting feel they remain outside it, looking in;

whereas they are drawn into a larger one. They can feel as though they are experiencing the painting somewhat as though they were inside its particular universe-if a landscape, for instance, they can have the sense of standing within it.

When I am painting, I evaluate my progress without consideration of any opinion other than my own. When a work is completed, I may consider how others might respond to it. I no longer expect my works, if they contain implied or explicit reactions to social matters, to encourage viewers of them to take some kind of action. Since I do not believe that I have pioneered a new style or new technique-these have never been my motivation- I do not expect artists who come after me to look to my work for forms or style. Yet although my work has not been innovative for the sake of being new or different, it is unique, unlike that of any other artist whose work I know. As an artist I feel that it is very much of its time, although it has never been fashionable. When my painting finds an audience to which it succeeds in communicating my sense of joy in making it, then I am satisfied.

In recent years-perhaps because I have been dissatisfied with the response of art writers and critics to my work, or perhaps because I teach art history as well as painting and graphic art-I have been writing from time to time on aspects of art history. In 1973, my book Social Realism: Art as a Weapon [2] was published. Recently, a long essay I co-authored with my wife, called The Politics of Apolitical Painting, in which we investigated the social- and political origins of Abstract Expressionism, was published in a journal of American studies [3]. I expect the essay to serve as the basis of a chapter or two in my next book.

References 1. David Shapiro: The Evolution of the Tamarind Mountain

Suite, (lithographs), exhibition catalog (New York: Assoc. American Artists Galleries, 1977).

2. D. Shapiro, Social Realism: Art as a Weapon (New York: Ungar, 1973).

3. D. Shapiro and C. Shapiro, The Politics of Apolitical Painting, in Prospects 3, J. Salzman, ed. (New York: B. Franklin, 1977) p. 175ff.

18



Top: Daniel Authouart. 'La Barbe t Ry, acrylic and oil on canvas, 97 x 146 cm, 1977. (Photo: Cordier, Rouen). (Fig. 1, cf. page 32.)

Center left: M. C. Escher. 'Circle Limit III'. (Reproduced with permission from the Escher Foundation, Haags Gemeentemuseum, The Hague) Its symmetry group is strictly (2, 2, 2, 2, 2, 2,) but, when colours are

disregarded, (4, 3, 3). (Fig. 2, cf. page 20.) Center right: (Dunbar Marshall-Malagola. 'Lagoon', oil, metal leaf, on Isorel panel, 122 x 153 cm, 1977.

(Fig. 8, cf. page 7.) Bottom: David Shapiro. 'Trees and Mountains without End, No. 3', tryptich, oil on Masonite, 52 x 160 cm,

1977. (Photo: Eric Pollitzer, Hempstead. N.Y.) (Fig.,8, cf. page 17.)


















an analysis and interpretation of my paintings and prints

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