September 20, 2019

A Few Thoughts on Cancel Culture

        Over the years I have featured the work of many “problematic” creators, from Nazi-sympathizing artists to sexist poets, but the rising tide now is “cancel culture,” which is the idea of boycotting the work and shunning the people whose personal behavior or opinions are considered unacceptable.  This can be a powerful way to stand up to injustice.  It can give those who feel victimized a sense of reclaiming power and agency.  It can bring larger social awareness to issues of prejudice or oppression, and to the specific crimes of specific celebrities.  It can cut down financial support for a hateful agenda.  It can  educate society about things that people find hurtful.  This is all Good.  But there are situations in which cancel culture is itself problematic.
        My first question is what we do about the work of those who are long gone?  Our cancelling of their work can’t teach them a lesson.  And what if the work itself is untainted by the sins of the creator?  With literature one might argue that it’s impossible for the writer’s prejudices not to contaminate the work (although I’m not convinced that this is in all cases true), but with visual art or, say, classical music, it’s much easier to feel that a work is beautiful, moving, and sublime, without there being any evidence of the artist or composer’s less admirable traits.  Is the art less beautiful if the artist has sins?  Does it lose its power when you remember that a mere flawed human created it?
        Then to focus in on these flawed humans (dead or living) and their less admirable traits… How bad do they have to be to be cancelled?  My belief is that there has only ever been one perfect Creator, and of course many people don’t believe even that.  So if no one is perfect, how bad is too bad?  Things may be clear at the extremes - that living artists directly profiting from their atrocities should be boycotted, while artists who simply failed to get along with their step-parents can probably still be accepted - but human behavior is a continuum, not a step function.  Do we cancel every single creator in Western Culture before, say, 1960?  Was there ever a single one who was not sexist and/or racist and/or anti-semitic and/or Islamophobic and/or homophobic and/or…?  Where do we draw the line?  And who gets to draw the line?
        And now let’s think about change.  Sometimes people change.  Sometimes people do actually learn and grow.  Cancel culture, with its instant firestorm outrage, leaves no room for this.  People are cancelled for past errors, whether or not they have since changed, and they are cancelled for present errors large and small, without the possibility of repentance.  Cancel culture’s purpose is punishment rather than rehabilitation, and scandal rather than education.  Something that can have so many positive possibilities in fighting society’s ills is all too often more of a sledge hammer than a scalpel.
        This can end up counterproductive, leaving people afraid to engage in dialogue or address thorny issues, damping creativity, and leading to a toxic environment where cancel culture is used as a justification to attack and demean anyone with whom there is disagreement.  Of course this is not how hearts and attitudes are changed.  Speaking for myself, I am quite certain that I have have not managed to get through the past almost-fifty years of speaking and writing without making statements that are offensive or hurtful to someone.  I promise you that whatever it was, unkindness and bigotry were not my intention, but I am ignorant about many things, and sometimes thoughtless, and often flippant.  If I do something wrong I would like my error to be explained to me so that I can try to avoid making the same mistake again.  I know education takes time and energy, and people get tired of having to educate ignorant idiots all the time.  I know that I don’t actually enjoy being criticized, and might be a little more prickly about criticism than I should.  But the question is simply: Which is more important to you, the grand rush of self-righteous outrage, or actually fixing the problem?
        Are there any ways to engage with problematic artists and art without either condoning the bad aspects or cancelling everything?  There’s a lot to think about, and this is just a short treatment of it.  I don’t claim to have covered all the issues or addressed all the concerns, or to be the first to have considered these questions.  If anyone has further thoughts, counterarguments, or reactions, I am open to hearing them.  I have merely laid out some of my own thoughts and reactions to this aspect of our current social environment, because it touches me closely.  Although I am small-time enough to fly under the radar of any huge backlash (I’ve never had a frontlash to begin with!) it is my job to lay myself open in many ways, and I do worry about making an inadvertent misstep, hurting someone’s feelings, and being branded as an irredeemably horrible human being.

[Picture: Desbrozando (Clearing) wood block print by Mariano Paredes, undated (Image from  Docs Populi).]

September 17, 2019

Nakayama's Horses

        Here’s another wood block print I saw in a museum this summer.  This is “Dancing Stallion” by Nakayama Tadashi (Japan, 1927-2014).  Nakayama worked with the traditional Japanese wood block printing technique of different blocks for each color, printed with a baren rather than a press.  However, unlike the traditional method, he did every stage himself, drawing, carving, and printing.  He also departed from tradition in his style, which was heavily influenced by Persian miniature paintings and Paolo Uccello’s Renaissance horse paintings.  The influence of Uccello is obvious in the subject matter of horses, but specifically in their monumental size and action, and in how richly decorated they are.  From the Persian miniatures Nakayama took the use of borders, rich colors, detailed patterns, and the use of gold and silver leaf.

        Looking at these pieces, it’s almost hard to recognize them as wood block prints because they’re so busy and detailed, not to mention quite large.  The one above which I saw was about 2x3 feet.  Some of Nakayama’s pieces have as many as 47 colors printed with 35 separate blocks!  I can’t tell how many blocks might have gone into these particular examples, but obviously it must have been incredibly laborious to build up a single piece from so many blocks, and Nakayama famously produced only a few editions of prints each year.  He was also especially famous for his horses.




        One particular recurring motif among Nakayama’s horses is the title “ema.”  The word literally means “picture-horse” and ema are wooden plaques displayed at Shinto shrines with prayers or wishes.  Horses are commonly pictured on these ema because horses are able to carry messages to the kami (spirits or gods).  The practice also spread to Japanese Buddhism.  So when Nakayama entitles his wood block prints “Ema,” he’s clearly giving the horse an extra dimension and significance.
        Although I like these pieces, in a way I don’t like them as printmaking, because it’s so hard to see the printmaking in them.  On the other hand, I can certainly stand in awe of the technical mastery required to produce them!

[Pictures: Dancing Stallion, woodblock print by Nakayama Tadashi, 1987 (This image from Azuma Gallery, as it was clearer than the photo I took in the National Museum of Scotland);
Running in the Afternoon, woodblock by Nakayama, 1974;
Blue Ema, woodblock by Nakayama, 1989;
Running Horses, woodblock by Nakayama, 1998 (Three images from Floating World Gallery).]

September 14, 2019

Dickinson's Fantasy

        Emily Dickinson (USA, 1830-1886) is an enigmatic poet, whose voice is unlike any other.  Although it’s clear that her imagination is rich, wild, and original, no one would characterize her as a fantasy poet.  She certainly does make use of fantasy images, as in
I started early, took my dog, 
And visited the sea; 
The mermaids in the basement 
Came out to look at me…

        Or this description of a storm
The creatures chuckled on the roofs 
And whistled in the air, 
And shook their fists and gnashed their teeth. 
And swung their frenzied hair. 

        But those instances are metaphorical, so for something truly out of the world of fantasy, we have to look at 
The only ghost I ever saw 
Was dressed in mechlin, -- so; 
He wore no sandal on his foot, 
And stepped like flakes of snow. 
His gait was soundless, like the bird, 
But rapid, like the roe; 
His fashions quaint, mosaic, 
Or, haply, mistletoe. 

His conversation seldom, 
His laughter like the breeze 
That dies away in dimples 
Among the pensive trees. 
Our interview was transient,-- 
Of me, himself was shy; 
And God forbid I look behind 
Since that appalling day! 

        What I find so remarkable and wonderful about this description of a ghost is its apparently benign presence -  so courtly and shy, even laughing rather than moaning or shrieking or behaving in any way scarily - and yet it nevertheless inspires utter terror.  This is a reminder that the idea of ghosts is frightening not really because they are harmful or evil, although certainly there is plenty of folklore and fantasy that portrays them as such, but because they are inexplicable, because they are from outside our own world and knowledge, and because they know and remind us of death.  And that’s enough to be appalling.  Capturing that simple truth gives this poem a serious kick.
        As for calling it “fantasy,” I don’t know how Dickinson herself viewed it.  Was it another metaphorical description, using “ghost” to get at some other idea?  Did she really see an apparition and consider this a literal description of a literal ghost encounter?  Or was she imagining what ghosts might be like in her life?

[Picture: Emily Dickinson II, wood engraving by Barry Moser (Image from R. Michelson Galleries).]

September 10, 2019

Printing Paisley

        In a bit of bonus Word of the Month, the ornamental textile design called paisley uses the Persian boteh, that curved teardrop shape, and its repeated patterns originated in India.  But in English we call it paisley after the Scottish textile-manufacturing town famous for producing such patterns (especially on shawls) in the 19th century.  (That makes the word an eponym.)  The better paisley shawls were woven, but cheaper ones, and patterns on cottons for other uses, were printed.  At the National Museum of Scotland this summer we saw some of these printing blocks.
        First of all, here’s a dress made of cotton printed in India.  This one, from c 1740-60, isn’t paisley, but is representative of the sorts of fabrics that the Scottish mills were interested in copying.  At the same time, though, this Indian design was made for export, and was thus influenced in its turn by British tastes.
        Now for the blocks.  There is a shawl in the background which is printed on silk, but not, as far as I can see, printed from the particular blocks in the foreground.  According to the caption, they are a set for a five-color design, and as there are four blocks in the set, I take the fabric background to be the fifth color.
        In a little fun with photoshop, I tried to recreate how this particular boteh might look.  The upper right block prints a solid background color.  You can see that the entire boteh shape is carved away and the entire background is left behind to print what I have made red in my recreation up above.  Next I “printed” the lower left block, in blue.  Third, the lower right in yellow.  The final block, upper left, tricked me.  When I went to add its design, it didn’t match up at all - I’ve put it off to the right, where you can see that it’s facing the wrong direction.  Then I noticed that there was another shape also on the same block, obscured behind the blocks in front, and that’s the one that matches up with the boteh I was previously building.  So I reconstructed it as well as I could and added that in white.  (I assume it has something with the little branch going off to the left, but as that’s entirely hidden, I don’t know what it might have looked like.)  Of course I could be totally off on the colors, although I tried to deduce from the stains on the blocks, but it gives you at least an idea of what those four blocks would look like when all printed together.
        I’ve never done too much with designing and printing multiple blocks for separate colors.  It just isn’t something I’ve been as enticed to work with.  Still, it’s cool to see how this design builds up.

[Pictures: Block printed cotton and linen textile from India, dress British, c 1740-60;
Set of hand printing blocks for Paisley pattern, and shawl of printed silk from Paisley, c 1870 (Photos taken by AEGN at National Museum of Scotland);
Photoshop design based on printing blocks, by AEGN.]

September 6, 2019

Another Harpist On My Theme

        A month ago children’s author and professor of literature Katherine Rundell released a book entitled Why You Should Read Children’s Books, Even Though You Are So Old and Wise.  I have not yet got my hands on it, but from the excerpts that have appeared in articles, she is most certainly singing my song - and singing it beautifully, too.
        Defy those who would tell you to be serious, those who would limit joy in the name of propriety. Cut shame off at the knees... Plunge yourself soul-forward into a children’s book: see if you do not find in them an unexpected alchemy; if they will not un-dig in you something half hidden and half forgotten…
        To miss out on something so rich, strange, varied and enticing in adulthood, just out of embarrassment or perhaps because it hasn’t occurred to you, seems such a waste. There is such joy to be had.
        So one point is simply the joy of children’s literature.  (The Good Stuff, of course!  As with anything, there's plenty of rubbish, as well.)  Some of this may be the joy that adult lit snobs sneeringly refer to as “escapism,” about which read my previous post.  A lot of it is the “wise” cynicism that believes misery is realistic while happiness is unrealistic, about which read this previous post.  There’s the puritanical suspicion that anything good and virtuous must be unpleasant, while anything you’re enjoying is probably some sort of sin.  But all of these attitudes are, quite simply, false.  As Rundell declaims, defy them!
        But there’s more than simply the potential for joy, as if that weren’t already enough.  Rundell reminds us that children’s books encourage us to long for impossible and perhaps-not-impossible things.  These things are, of course, the things worldly wise adults have all-too-often already given up on: justice, adventure, hope…
        I think there is a risk, in adulthood, through the compromises we make and the busyness of our lives, that we cease to cherish the imagination in the way we should. Because the imagination is absolutely essential for seeing the world truly.
        Writing books for children requires all the love, beauty, imagination, and hope that serious adult writers tend to leave out in the name of “sophisticated ambiguity” and “gritty realism.”  Which is precisely why adults should be reading them.

[Picture: Dingbat from Chap-Books of the Eighteenth Century, by John Ashton, 1882 (Image from Internet Archive).]
Rundell’s quotations from The Guardian, 20 April 2019.

September 3, 2019

Pape on Paper

        This summer we visited quite a few museums, including Tate Modern in London.  There weren’t many block prints on display there - in fact, I noticed only this one: Weaving, by Lygia Pape (Brazil, 1927-2004).  Maybe I wouldn’t have picked it out if I’d had whole galleries of relief prints from which to choose, but in the Tate’s world of big, bombastic, attention-seeking pieces, I hailed the sight of this small print as a welcome oasis.  The horizontal lines are restrained and restful, but imbued with enough of the natural wood grain and natural hand-carving not to seem overly mechanical or restrictive.  The way the geometric shapes fit into each other without quite blending into larger shapes gives it subtle interest and a sense of dimension.  The caption implies that each of the shapes was a separate block, and while some of the blocks could be arranged spontaneously, some must have been planned to fit together in certain ways.  I’m pretty sure that the long rectangle and pair of triangles at the top and bottom (in other words, the top three shapes and the bottom three shapes) are the same three blocks, printed twice each on the paper.  I can’t determine whether any of the other triangles are duplicates.
        Back home I looked up Pape and more of her art and found that I’m honestly not much enamored of most of it.  She was, it turns out, a member of the “concrete art” movement.  Concrete art, according to Wikipedia, “intended to defend the objectivity of art through paintings that ‘have no other significance than [themselves].’  It forbade the use of natural forms, lyricism, and sentiment.”  While I have no objection to art having no other significance than itself, I figure once you’ve left out natural forms, lyricism, and sentiment, you’ve got nothing worthwhile left.  Besides, what’s this nonsense about the “objectivity of art”?  The whole point of art is how uniquely subjective it is.
        But let’s look back at Pape’s piece once again…  Wood grain is most certainly a natural form.  The idea of weaving certainly has some lyricism.  The suggestion of textiles, with their human creation and intimate human use, can’t help but at least hint of sentiment.  So Pape, though a card-carrying concretist in the 1950s, was clearly not following their ideals as deeply and wholly as she might.  And indeed in 1959 Pape signed the Neo-Concrete Manifesto, which remained wedded to abstract, non-representational geometry, but embraced art’s relationship with the organic, the human, the meditative, and the importance of its relationship with the active viewer.
        All this sounds rather artificially intellectual to me, and indeed downright dreary. I want to cry, “Stop pontificating and justifying and posturing, and just make something you enjoy, to share with others so that they’ll enjoy it, too!  Is that so hard?”  But Pape said, “To me, art is a way of knowing the world… to see how the world is… of getting to know the world.”  And I guess when it comes right down to it, if that’s really what she was doing, and if for her the way to do it was through concrete art and neo-concrete art, then I’m not going to complain.  So here are a couple more I like, as well.




[Pictures: Tecelar (Weaving), woodcut by Lygia Pape, 1957 (Image from Tate);
Tecelar (Weaving), woodcut by Pape, 1958 (Image from artbook);
unknown woodcut by Pape, unknown date (Image from Artwell Guide).]

August 28, 2019

Words of the Month - Disease-Written

        Nowadays we tend to think of words for diseases as being quite clinical and precise, but before medical science had come that far, names for various illnesses and conditions gained much more colloquial use.  In fact, many adjectives we use today had their origins in the names of diseases.  I hope you’re feeling healthy as we enter the disease-ridden corridors of the English language…

poxy - an adjective of general insult.  The word pox covers a variety of diseases that cause sores or pustules, such as chicken pox and smallpox as well as syphilis.  The adjectival form started with the literal sense of having pox, and within 50 years had become a more general insult.  Presumably the negative social implications of syphilis added to its insulting connotation, but also the fact that pox can also mean any plague or curse more generally.

mangy - scabby; squalid, shabbyMange is a skin disease which causes poor condition of the fur.  The word may have been applied to humans more commonly in earlier centuries, but now is used only of animals.  The use of the adjectival form would seem to be quite obvious, but apparently took over a century to develop in English.

scurvy - contemptible, despicable.  The disease scurvy is caused by deficiency of vitamin C, causing a whole host of unpleasant symptoms.  Apparently in this case the adjective came first, meaning scabby and generally ill and disgusting, and was adopted as a name for the disease about half a century later.  It is no mere coincidence that we tend to hear the word now primarily in Pirate Speak, because scurvy was notoriously a disease of sailors, and a sailor with scurvy was notoriously useless.

rickety - unsteady, likely to collapse.  This is the adjectival form of the disease rickets, a vitamin D deficiency that became especially common among children during the Industrial Revolution.  Its effect is failure of bones to develop properly, meaning that a rickey person is indeed unsteady.  Nowadays it is used only of objects such as furniture, and no longer applied to people.  The disease itself is no longer common except in conjunction with areas of general malnutrition, so the disease is much less known than the adjective, and the figurative use is the only one that remains.

measly - contemptibly small.  The measles is a disease which causes little spots all over, and perhaps the adjective comes from the size of the spots.  On the other hand, it may just come from the general pattern of disease adjectives to become insults indicating little worth.  What’s interesting here is that the adjective’s connection to the noun seems to have entirely disappeared as far as common usage goes.  How many people complaining of a measly serving of food have any idea of the word’s origins?

jaundiced - affected with bitterness or envy, with a distorted or cynical view.  The disease jaundice is caused by an excess of bile in the blood, which gives skin and the whites of eyes a yellowish color.  The color yellow as well as the humor “yellow bile” were associated in classical and medieval medicine with anger, aggression, and envy, although the figurative use of the adjective is not recorded until about 1620.

myopic - shortsighted, lacking foresight or insight.  The medical condition of myopia is simply near-sightedness.  The figurative sense presumably had to wait until the neo-Latin medical coining of the eighteenth century had made its way into common usage.  What’s interesting about this one, as opposed to, say, rickety, is that when you call something or someone myopic meaning “narrow-minded” you are very conscious that this is a metaphoric use.  

        There are a couple of general themes here.  The first is how easily suffering from a disease or medical condition makes one an object of contempt.  Clearly it is not desirable to have a disease, and having unpleasant symptoms is a bad thing, however it is interesting to note that a “scurvy dog” is not simply an innocent sufferer deprived of necessary vitamin C.  To call someone scurvy is to say they are worthless.  A second note is that before hospitals and quarantines and modern privacy, people lived cheek by jowl with diseases of all sorts, were all too familiar with their symptoms, and were quite understandably horrified by the victims.  Under those conditions it isn’t surprising that people would more readily use words for diseases in colorful figurative ways, and I suspect that we will not be seeing much in the way of new adjectives coming from new medical terms taking on metaphorical meanings.  And finally, adjectives are more likely to take on an independent life, no longer tied to their original diseases, when the diseases become less common and/or when the older words for the diseases are replaced with more precise clinical jargon, leaving the older words alone with their colloquial meanings.

[Pictures: Aztec smallpox victims, drawing by anonymous artist, 16th century (Image from Wikimedia Commons);
Rickets, wood engraving by Albert Abramowitz, 1935-43 (Image from The Met).]

August 21, 2019

Bestiary Progress Report

        The Kickstarter campaign for my mythical bestiary ended three and a half months ago, so here’s an update on what’s been happening since then:
        1. I completed the last few block prints, including the custom creatures designed for the highest-tier backers, and I worked on the writing, editing, proof-reading, finalizing, tweaking, and re-tweaking, as well as converting all the files to the CMYK color profile the printer requires.  So I was all finished with the content of the bestiary… until…
        2. I decided that I needed to add another creature (the wapaloosie), make a new author portrait, and sprinkle yet a few more little critters here and there (including this pyrallis.  What’s a pyrallis?  More here.)  So I finished up those blocks, and got them integrated into the layout, which required the writing of some new text and a certain amount of pushing and shoving in the notes pages.
        3. The next task was producing a pdf to the specifications required by the printer.  This was a new one for me.  I thought the whole point of a pdf was that it was a pdf, but no, only certain pdf formats will do for these guys.  Much frustration ensued, including calling in help from a couple of generous neighbors, and the third attempt was the charm.
        4. Once the cover and interior pdfs were uploaded and passed the automated check, there was a more in-depth check by the printer, followed by a digital proof for me to check.  I looked it over this morning and it seems good, so all that remains is to order a physical proof copy.  This will be when I confirm that colors are accurate and printing is sharp.  (Or, of course, discover that they are not okay, at which point I will have to redo some percentage of everything.  Needless to say, I hope it will not come to that.)
        5. Meanwhile, the magnets have arrived!  (Sets of mythical creature magnets were one of the pledge prizes in the Kickstarter campaign.  I’ll also be selling them at my upcoming shows.)  In order to keep the cost down, I ordered them in large sheets and have to cut them apart myself.  I’ve been doing a few at a time for a couple of weeks and I now have about 50 sheets cut, so I’m making progress.  I think they look good, and so does my daughter as an independent witness.
        I also need to start work on the calendars (another pledge prize) while I await my proof copy of the bestiary.  And to help educate and entertain you in the meantime, here’s a map of where the bestiary’s featured creatures hail from.  This map won't appear in the book, primarily because of the ambiguity of assigning locations to some of the beasts.  Should they be put in the place that tells stories about them, or in the place where the stories say they reside?  (Lots of cultures have stories of exotic creatures that live in other lands far distant.)  Where should they be pinpointed when their legends are widespread, or shifted over time?  What about creatures that don't come from this Earth at all?  Still, this map gives a general idea of their diversity: heavy on Europe and the Middle East, but a sprinkling across the rest of the globe.
        The beasts and I have been busy!

[Pictures: Dragonfly (Pyrallis), rubber block print by AEGN, 2019;
Mythical creature magnets;
Map of creature locations.]

August 14, 2019

First Impressions of London

        William Caxton set up the first printing press in England in 1476 and got right to work with this edition of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales.  This leaf is displayed in the Museum of London (which, by the way, I highly recommend to anyone who gets a chance to visit).  The typeface, while not particularly legible to my modern eyes, is modelled on contemporary handwriting, and is quite beautiful.  For this piece, as the others featured today, I have no way of knowing who might have been responsible for the actual design and carving of any blocks.






        Four years later Caxton published The Chronicles of England, with this illustration of London.  Practices of the day being what they were, I suspect it is merely a generic city, rather than an attempt at accuracy.  The towers do not particularly resemble those of the White Tower of London, which would have been a major icon at the time, but perhaps they were considered close enough.  The image illustrates the mythical story of the founding of London by Brutus of Troy, and of course the city doesn’t look very Trojan or Roman in this picture, either.  Nevertheless, it’s a very pleasing little wood block print with its crowd of walls and windows and spires.  This particular sheet comes from an edition of 1497, printed by Caxton’s successor Wynkyn de Worde.
        This seventeenth century view of London is not any more recognizable, but to be fair, most of the London it depicts was wiped away by the fire it depicts.  The Great Fire of London was in 1666 and this image comes from 1651, courtesy of astrologer William Lilly and his book of predictions about the future of England.  He was far from the only one predicting a great fire, and I suspect that any reasonable person looking at the great heap of flammable material that was the City of London could surmise that it was only a matter of time.  Lilly, however, was famous enough for his prediction that after the Great Fire the Commons Committee investigating it called him in for questioning.  Pleading that he really had not known any details, he was released.  Far better to be deemed a poor astrologer than a successful arsonist.  All that’s tangential, however, to the charm of the wood block print, which really has
wonderful details, especially the ships on the Thames.  I include also my photo of the book as it’s displayed  in the Museum of London because I really like the pictures on the facing page, as well.  I have no information as to what they might foretell, although I’d guess that the dragon could represent Wales and the lion England.  Taking it at face value, however, it appears that a dragon once upon a time encountered a mole, and for reasons unknown they tied their tails together.  They subsequently separated, a lion came along, and they all lived happily ever after?  The picture of London burning seems a lot more literal of interpretation.
        I ran into plenty of other relief block prints in the various museums we visited, so it doesn't take an astrologer to foretell that more will appear here in time.

[Pictures: Page from Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales (“The Clerk’s Tale”), William Caxton, 1476;
London, wood block print from The Chronicles of England published by Caxton and Wynkyn de Worde, 1497 edition;
Predicting the Great Fire, wood block print from Monarchy or No Monarchy by William Lilly, 1651 (Image from Museum of London; other photos taken by AEGN at the Museum of London).]

August 7, 2019

Impressions of London

        Today’s theme is block prints of London, and I’m sticking with the iconic sights.  This first one, by Abigail Daker, covers all the bases with all the famous skyline elements from St Pauls and Big Ben to the Gherkin and London Eye.  Everything’s stacked up cheek by jowl, not laid out the way it is in real life or any way you could possibly see it; it’s a London sundae.  I especially love the way the background is patterned.


        Big Ben returns in this second piece, by Katie Jo Heiner Shupe, along with some of London’s smaller icons: a telephone box and a double decker bus.  This one is capturing a particular specific scene.  I like the details of every stone of the sidewalk and the building framing the picture on the left, and the textured clouds in the sky.
        By contrast, here’s a piece with sparser lines and lots of white space depicting the Tower of London by Lance Duffin.  It may be simple, but it captures all the necessary details so that its subject is instantly recognizable.
        We couldn’t possibly depict London without the Underground, so here’s the Piccadilly Station entrance with its iconic round symbol, and the statue on the Shaftesbury Memorial Fountain in the background.  Fun fact: although usually called Eros, the statue was originally intended to depict Anteros, Eros’s little brother and god of requited love.  As for the block print,  by John Gledhill, it’s especially interesting in not putting white outlines around the various black objects, including the posts flanking the underground entrance and the man’s suit and briefcase.

        And finally, a juxtaposition of old and new: St Paul’s Cathedral and the Millenium Bridge, by Susan Short.  This one has an interesting depiction of the shadow of the bridge’s cables falling across its pier and the Thames below, but perhaps the most interesting thing is that it’s printed on paper that has a subtle wood grain pattern.  This makes a lovely, pale, slightly rosy sky in the large blank area that emphasizes our low viewpoint.
        So, five cool views of the city of London, five artists, five different icons on which to focus, with different styles, different levels of detail and texture.  (It's also interesting that 4/5 are in vertical rather than "landscape" format.)  What fun!

[Pictures: Central London Skyline and Landmarks, linocut print by Abigail Daker (Image from the artist’s Etsy shop abidaker);
London, linocut print by Katie Jo Heiner Shupe (See the artist’s Etsy Shop BonVoyart);
Tower of London, linocut by Lance Duffin, 2018 (Image from Flickr);
Piccadilly III, linocut by John Gledhill, c 2014 (Image from the artist’s web site.)
St Pauls & Millenium Bridge, woodcut by Susan Short (Image from the artist’s web site.)]

July 31, 2019

Portrait of the Artist with Muses

        I had just declared myself finished with all the prints for my bestiary, when I decided that the image I was using for the author just wouldn’t cut it.  The thing is, it was originally intended as a portrait of another author, and a romance author at that, and I decided I wanted something more appropriate to this work.  I wanted something that reflected the artist/author observing and recording the marvelous creatures of the Realms of Imagination.  So, hmmm… A person surrounded by all manner of wild and wacky mythical creatures… What does that remind me of?  Why, the Temptation of St Anthony, of course!  Obviously I wouldn’t show demonic creatures attacking my human, but rather human and creatures regarding each other equally with curiosity and delight.
        If you go back to the previous post and look again at Schongauer’s famous “Temptation” you will see at once that I stole one of his monsters wholesale.  The fishy thing on the left is lifted with only minor modifications and placed in the same position in my block.  I did replace its arms with wings, and I gave it scales under the influence of Michelangelo’s copy of Schongauer’s work, but I just love its trumpet schnozz, its lugubrious eye and jowls, and its wild spikes.  Another of Schongauer’s monsters also contributed: the beast on the far right provided its head and wings, and the inspiration of its tail.  Again, I switched out its arms and instead gave it legs and a pot belly.  I also made its expression much more cheerful.
        Schongauer’s is not the only “Temptation” that tempted me, however.  The malacomorph on the tree branch has its snail shell as part of my running joke of sprinkling malacomorphs throughout the entire bestiary, but I was inspired by Cranach’s frill-faced beast in embellishing its head.  (The frill in my first sketches looked more like Cranach’s, but eventually got modified with a little touch of the weird frills on Schongauer’s bottom right
beast.)  And finally, my bottom right monster is copied from one at the lower left of a painting by Hieronymus Bosch.  I thought it was, frankly, adorable.
        As for the “artist,” that’s a portrait of me, of course, wearing something that I hope is vaguely suggestive of a nineteenth century explorer’s khaki.
        I like to think that all these beasties are really not demons, but just misunderstood!

[Pictures: Portrait of the Artist, rubber block print by AEGN, 2019;
The Temptation of St Anthony (detail), painting by Hieronymus Bosch or a follower, c 1500-1516 (Image from Wikimedia Commons).]

July 24, 2019

Temptation of St Anthony

        Any exploration of European art history ends up providing a crash course in Catholic saints and their iconography.  Today we’re looking at the Temptation of St Anthony, and we’re looking at it because of the marvelous monsters featured therein.  According to the Golden Legend and other hagiographies, St Anthony had a number of run-ins with demons while he was hanging out in the desert.  He was tempted by demons in the form of beautiful women, tormented by demon attacks on the ground, and ambushed by demons in mid-air.  These various episodes, both separately and combined, all tend to be titled “The Temptation of St Anthony,” although I think the alternate titles “Trial” or “Tribulation” make more sense.  In any case, it was a popular subject in medieval and renaissance art.
        First up, the famous engraving by Martin Schongauer, which is probably both Schongauer’s most influential piece, and the most influential version of St  Anthony’s Temptation.  You can see why this theme would be popular: it’s just so much fun!  The demons are wacky, grotesque, dementedly creative, with
wings and horns and tails, spikes here, fur there, scales on the other… It’s not often an artist of serious religious themes gets to let his imagination run so wild.  And there’s Anthony, just looking resigned: “Oh bother.  Demons again.”
        With Schongauer’s image as our baseline, let’s get back to the wood block prints.  Lucas Cranach the Elder’s is not as appealing a composition with its frenetic cluttering, but a close look at the individual elements provides plenty of delight.  How about the bottom monster with the head of a boar, the wings of a beetle, and the hindquarters of a lizard?  What about the frill-faced beast in the center top that looks more like a smug cat than a terrifying demon?  That does, of course, lead me to wonder to what extent the artists did intend their monsters to be frightening.  Did original viewers enjoy these prints for the frisson of fear as people today enjoy horror movies?  Or did they, like me, find the creatures as wonderful and amusing as scary?
        This epic scene by Jan Wellens de Cock is one that includes many episodes from the saint’s life in a single image.  In the middle of the bottom Anthony is being visited by a lovely noblewoman whose true identity is betrayed by her clawed foot peeking out from the hem of her gown.  The mid-air demon attack is also portrayed, in the upper left quadrant, and throughout the picture strange little imps can be seen converging on poor Anthony.  (Don’t worry; he withstands them all!)  The level of detail is quite impressive and I love the wonderful scenery as well as the monsters.  My favorite creature is the strange flying thing in the far upper left.
        And finally a smaller wood block print by Hans Weiditz which was an illustration in a book rather than the larger ones above, which were printed as individual sheets.  Again, it’s pretty busy, but the various demons have a marvelous array of features, especially the one in the lower right with a clawed duckfoot, insect wings, an arrow-pointed tongue, and a furry face.  I can’t help being most taken by the creature in the upper left, however, who pauses in his temptation of Anthony to look thoughtfully out at the viewer.  Does the artist want it to be a little more sympathetic, or are we being reminded that not all devils appear so evil?
        You may be wondering what’s the significance of all these crazy monsters.   Frankly, cool wood block prints is significance enough, but as it happens, there’s more.  As someone who, unlike the medieval and renaissance audiences of these pieces, has no fear of actual monstrous demons, but who instead enjoys fantastical creatures, these are a treasure trove of strange and marvelous beasties.  I will share in a future post something I did under their hopefully-not-too-demonic inspiration.

[Pictures: The Temptation of Saint Anthony, engraving by Martin Schongauer, 1470-5 (Image from Art Institute of Chicago);
The Temptation of Saint Anthony, woodcut by Lucas Cranach the Elder, 1506 (Image from Art Institute of Chicago);
The Temptation of Saint Anthony, woodcut by Jan Wellens de Cock, 1522 (Image from National  Gallery of Art);
The temptation of St Antony, woodcut by Hans Weiditz, c 1520-5 (Image from The British Museum).]

July 17, 2019

Herrick's Hag

The Hag is astride,
This night for to ride;
The Devill and shee together:
Through thick, and through thin,
Now out, and then in,
Though ne’r so foule be the weather.

A Thorn or a Burr
She takes for a Spurre:
With a lash of a Bramble she rides now,
Through Brakes and through Bryars,
O’re Ditches, and Mires,
She followes the Spirit that guides now.

No Beast, for his food,
Dares now range the wood;
But husht in his laire he lies lurking:
While mischiefs, by these,
On Land and on Seas,
At noone of Night are working,

The storme will arise,
And trouble the skies;
This night, and more for the wonder,
The ghost from the Tomb
Affrighted shall come,
Cal’d out by the clap of the Thunder.

        Here’s a poem by Robert Herrick (UK, 1591-1674).  I’m no expert on Herrick, but I think this seems a little unusual for him, as he’s famous for poems celebrating the joy and beauty of both the English countryside and the English young women.  He is one of the foremost poets of the carpe diem genre, author of that most famous line “Gather ye rosebuds while ye may.”  So how does a poem about a witch consorting with the devil at midnight fit into that?
        To me the tone of the poem evokes a rollicking song - I can imagine this set to foot-stomping music - that plays the fright for entertainment.  Such a galloping rhythm and rhyming couplets are now usually associated with comic poetry, and the images focus more on the wild ride than any specific evil the witch is committing.  But how was it intended and received in a world that still knew a very real and serious fear of witchcraft?  Witchcraft trials were at their peak in Europe during Herrick’s young adulthood.  When Herrick published this poem in 1648, self-proclaimed “Witchfinder General” Matthew Hopkins had just been responsible for the executions of an estimated 300 accused witches in England between 1644-1647.
        So, was this poem intended as fantasy, or as warning of true perils?  I don’t know, but of course I’ve shared it today as a fantasy poem.  Read it aloud to enjoy the rhythm, and the phrases such as “a lash of a bramble” and “husht in his lair he lies lurking.”  I particularly like the idea of the demonic thunder frightening the ghost right out of its tomb.

[Pictures: Witch and Devil riding, wood block print from the workshop of Michael Wolgemut, from the Nuremberg Chronicle, c 1493 (Image from Cornell University (Shared Shelf Commons));
Matthew Hopkins Witch Finder Generall, wood block print from The Discovery of Witches by Hopkins, 1647 (Image from The British Museum).]

July 10, 2019

Nature at Work

        Here’s a cool illustration from a medieval French manuscript.  Don’t worry, this is not an image of animal abuse; it portrays Nature, personified as a woman, sculpting a bird on her anvil.  She has already created several other animals and birds and even a man, who will be brought to life by the divine breath when she’s finished making them.  I love that Nature is dressed so elegantly (if perhaps not very practically).  I love the beautiful blue sky and the details of the smith’s tools and forge.  I love the very plain, dull earth, as if Nature’s work is only just beginning.  I also appreciate that this personification of Nature is a woman, giving some recognition and scope for female power and creativity in a culture that didn’t usually allow much.  It’s a beautiful little painting, finely detailed, luxuriantly colored, and edged with shining gold illumination.
        The illustration appears in a French manuscript from about 1405, of Le Roman de la Rose, a poem about the art of courtly love.  The Romance of the Rose was one of the most widely read books of the middle ages, especially for a secular work.  I haven’t read it, so I can’t tell you anything about how our image of Nature fits into it, but it seems to come from the second section of the poem, wherein various allegorical personages hold forth on Love.  Just for fun, here’s also a wood block print of the same scene from an edition printed in 1503.  This Nature looks less aristocratic and more like a hard-working craftswoman as she hammers her little doll-like human.  However, it makes a good demonstration of why manuscript books were considered higher quality and higher prestige than early printed books: the hand-painted illustration is clearly a much more beautiful work of art than the rather crude wood block print.

[Pictures: Personification of Nature making a bird, painting by anonymous artist from Le Roman de la Rose, 1405 (Image from The J. Paul Getty Museum);
Personification of Nature making a man, wood block print by anonymous artist from Le Roman de la Rose, 1503 (Image from Digital Library of Medieval Manuscripts).]

July 3, 2019

Apple Pie and Chow Mein

        In honor of July Fourth, let’s have a look at Margaret Chodos-Irvine’s illustrations for Apple Pie 4th of July by Janet S. Wong (2002).  Chodos-Irvine uses a variety of printmaking techniques, most of which fall into the collagraph category.  What she does differently from the collagraphs I’ve featured before, however, is to print in multiple layers with multiple “blocks” for multiple colors.  You can see how the various cut-out shapes build up the picture, not minding that they don’t fit together precisely, and how the textured patterns are printed on top of solids.  Chodos-Irvine is known for the bright, bold colors and textures of her illustrations, which come from using all manner of textured materials which she collects.  She particularly went to town with the textures and patterns in her Caldecott Honor-Winning Ella Sarah Gets Dressed (mentioned in my previous post on print-illustrated Caldecott books.)
        Chodos-Irvine has a web site with some pictures and explanations of her process and her inspirations.  (Step-by-step creation of a piece here.)  Check it out if you want to see more.  You can see that she works very messily!  This is not so surprising when she’s using so many sorts of different materials and inks at once.  She lists some forty materials that she has used in printmaking, including posterboard, textured vinyl, paper doilies, corrugated cardboard, ribbon, styrofoam…  In other words, anything you can ink up and press is fair game.  She clearly has fun with it.  Indeed, she says, “If you are going to be illustrating children’s books, you might as well be smiling, right?”
        Of course I picked today to feature Chodos-Irvine because of the July Fourth connection with the book.  It’s about a girl who doesn’t think people will want to eat Chinese food on the 4th of July - only apple pie.  But of course they do want Chinese food.  The book doesn’t preach, but I’m going to: July 4th is when we celebrate the United States of America, and you cannot, simply cannot, celebrate all that the USA has been, has stood for, and can be, without also celebrating all the immigrants of which we are composed.  (Besides, Chinese food is yummy every day of the year!)
        To those who will be celebrating tomorrow, Happy Independence Day, and remember as you cheer the fireworks and parades, that what makes America great is not hatred, oppression, and exclusion, but the possibility of an American Dream of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness for everyone.  The prouder we are of that ideal, the harder we have to work to make it true.

[Pictures: Chow mein in our kitchen, collagraph by Margaret Chodos-Irvine from Apple Pie 4th of July by Janet S. Wong, 2002;
printmaking materials, photos by Chodos-Irving, 2013;
Soda and potato chips, collagraph by Chodos-Irvine from Apple Pie 4th of July, 2002;
Fireworks show, collagraph by Chodos-Irvine from Apple Pie 4th of July, 2002 (Images from Margaret Chodos-Irvine.com).]