... The Beauty of Complexity

        Sometimes I'm amazed by the beauty of a few perfect marks… but other times I find beauty in the breathtaking complexity of an image.  I'm awed by the skill it takes to create such a block, by the way I keep noticing more and more details the longer I look, by the gorgeous visual richness.  Periodically I keep pushing myself to attempt greater and greater complexity in my block prints (alternating with simpler images) and that challenge takes two forms.  One is the technical challenge of carving all those details, and the other is the design challenge of avoiding an overwhelming fussiness in which all marks assume equal importance and the forest gets lost in the trees.

        One of the more successful complicated blocks I've done is this picture of zebras at a water hole.  The concept came from a photograph I saw in a book about zebras, and I loved the idea of the stripes reflected in the water.  To balance the crazy busyness of the stripes, however, I left the background completely plain.  After all, I'm not an incredible-detail kind of artist any more than I'm a few-simple-strokes artist.  I'm really just a middling sort, but I can certainly appreciate the incredible details that others achieve.

        Obviously M.C. Escher belongs in this category, so let me just refer you to my entire entry on his block prints, and then give space to some other artists. 

        

        For some mind-blowing block prints you need look no farther than the Society of Wood Engravers.  Check out their web site for a gallery of incredible images, as well as information on the materials, tools, and techniques used for wood engraving.

        If it's complexity you're looking for, take this piece by Sue Scullard.  Just look at all that crazy detail!  Is your mouth hanging open?  It should be. 

        Or compare with this one by Rie Kawauchi, who uses the busyness of her details to create a complex graphic pattern.  (Notice the odd shape of the piece?  Remember that wood engravings are done on end grain.  I'm guessing that the shape of this piece was determined by the cross section of the tree from which the block was cut.)

        Finally here's a more traditional wood engraving by Simon Brett (one of the  modern masters of the form.)  To me it's more reminiscent of the engravings that were done to enable reproduction of paintings and other images for publication before the invention of photographic processes.  Its level of detail is so fine that it almost ceases to retain the look of carving or the contrast of black and white that I love in block printing, so there are other pieces that I prefer.  Nevertheless, it's amazing to see what complexity the medium is capable of.

        Woodcuts and rubber block prints simply can't take and hold the level of detail demonstrated in these wood engravings, so for myself I'm unlikely ever even to attempt it, let alone to get to the point where I can achieve it.  But I can certainly admire it!

[Pictures: Three at the Water Hole, rubber block print by AEGN, 1998 (sold out);

St. Peter, Rome, wood engraving by M.C. Escher, 1935;

Rose Garden, Sissinghurst, wood engraving by Sue Scullard;

Troyes, wood engraving by Rie Kawauchi;

Brucefield Mains, wood engraving by Simon Brett, 2002.]

The Beauty of Simplicity...

        Sometimes all the details in the world can't capture the spirit better than a few simple strokes.  I'm normally not a few-simple-strokes kind of artist, so perhaps that's why I was particularly proud of myself for my block print of the catball.  I'd been idly sketching our cat Nightshade with some frequency, mostly when she's asleep and therefore holding still.  (Except the tip of her tail, which never holds still unless she's lying on it.  Even then it may be twitching away beneath her, giving her ticklish dreams for all I know.)  Anyway, I began to experiment with drawing her with the fewest, simplest lines, and the eventual result was this rubber block print.  For me it was confirmation that you can't get to simplicity until you've gotten a lot of practice with your subject.  Simple is not the basic step.  Sometimes it's the highest.

        Inevitably the sleeping cat piece reminded me of Matisse's linoleum block prints, in which he carves only a few lines on his block.  It must have taken only a matter of minutes to do the actual carving, but who knows how many years of preparatory sketches.  I wish I knew whether Matisse drew a design first or just sat down and put blade to block.  In any case, Matisse's aren't my favorite prints - in some ways I think they're a waste of the print medium, as they could just as well have been done with a brush or a pencil.  On the other hand, it's fascinating to see just how far the medium can be pushed toward simplicity.

        When I started looking around for block prints that express a whole idea with a minimum of fussiness, I ran into the work of Lee Chul Soo, a Korean artist born in 1954.  (Go to Davidson Galleries for a biography and lots of other pictures.  Thank you, Davidson Galleries!  I especially like Shopping from 2003, but it isn't simple enough to qualify for this blog entry.)  Lee Chul Soo does with block prints the sort of image that I often associate with Chinese calligraphy - those few simple strokes suggesting a whole world.

        The simplest images can sometimes prompt the "I could have done that" response, but I know that for me, at least, it was a great and rare achievement to produce this sort of piece.  Maybe that's why I admire the purity of vision that can translate our complicated world int0 its simplest essence.

[Pictures: Cat Asleep, rubber block print by AEGN, 1999 (sold out);

fronstpiece for Drawings - Themes and Variations, linoleum block print by Henri Matisse, 1943 (Image from Denis Bloch Fine Art);

Birds Flying Up, wood block print by Lee Chul Soo, 1998;

As You Sow, wood block print by Lee Chul Soo, 2003;

Your Way, wood block print by Lee Chul Soo, 2004 (Images from Davidson Galleries).]

P.S.  If you're in the USA, don't forget to vote today!

Words of the Month - Things That Go Bump In the Night

        Hallowe'en is nearly upon us, and it's time you were prepared for some of the more unusual words that might haunt you at this time of spirits and spooks.  We all know about witches, zombies, werewolves and ghosts, but what would you do if you were out trick-or-treating and encountered an ouphe?  Basic self-preservation requires that you learn these words before the sun goes down on October 31.

ouphe - imp, goblin, elf

     You'll find these troublemakers in England.  The word first appeared in Shakespeare (1623) and, funnily enough, may simply be a typographical error for oaph, as in oaf.  It turns out that oaf and elf come from the same root, the connection being that children with mental or physical abnormalities were said to be changelings.  Thus a person who was thought to be stupid or slow was elfish.  As for true goblin ouphes, they can be pronounced more like oaf, or more like oof.  I prefer the latter, but however you pronounce their name, watch out for their mischief.

rakshasa - an evil humanoid creature that feeds on human flesh and spoiled food, and is a shapechanger, illusionist, and magician

     Rakshasas are a terrible danger to travellers in India.  According to Hinduism, Rakshasas may have been particularly evil humans in former lives, and according to Buddhism they are demons of the army that fought Buddha, but in either case they're known to disturb sacrifices, desecrate graves, dine on human travellers, and carry off heroes' wives.  They have long sharp teeth and venomous fingernails, and are said to have as many as ten heads.  If you wish to defeat one, you'll need to be a hero.

dybbuk - the dislocated soul of a dead person, which can possess a living person

     The danger of dybbuks is worst in Eastern Europe.  According to Jewish folklore a dybbuk often uses the possessed person to help it finish a task it was unable to do before death.  Supposedly a dybbuk can sometimes be benevolent, but I don't think I want to risk getting a malicious one.

tokoloshe - a creature variously believed to be a zombie, a familiar, a gremlin, or a demon.  It's created by a shaman in order to wreak revenge on the shaman's enemies.

     It is in southern Africa that you need to watch out for tokoloshes.  The word comes from Zulu and is spelled a variety of ways, including Tikoloshe.  They are small, hairy, and may have holes in their skulls or gouged-out eyes, but they're usually invisible to adults, due to a pebble they carry in their mouths.  They're thought to frighten children, rape women, steal things, and cause illness and death.  But the most evil thing about them is that real people in Africa are sometimes attacked or murdered out of fear of witchcraft and tokoloshes.

far darrig - a solitary Irish fairy who wears a red coat and cap and delights in playing pranks on people - especially gruesome tricks

     This word is an Anglicization of the Irish fear dearg, meaning Red Man.  According to Gil Hamper, "Mortal terror amuses the far darrig. Occasionally, he invites a mortal to enter a lonely bog hut, then he orders him to make dinner out of a hag skewered on a spit. The man usually faints. When he recovers, he finds himself alone with the sound of laughter filling the air, but coming from no distinguishable source. It is advisable to say 'Na dean maggadh fum'-- do not mock me', when you encounter a far darrig, that way you cannot be used in one of his macabre games. Unfortunately, he plans his tricks so well that a mortal is snared long before he realizes the need to protest."

He can also give evil dreams.

baku - a Japanese creature that devours dreams and nightmares

     Traditionally the baku was depicted as sort of an elephant-headed tiger.  More recent versions often show the baku looking like a tapir.  Now that anime and manga have become popular in the West, various versions of the baku can be seen here, including baku-based Pokémon.  Whatever its appearance, if the far darrig or any other Hallowe'en stuff is giving you nightmares, the baku is the creature for you.

[Pictures: Rakshasa, photo by Manohara Upadhya;

Baku, wood block print by Katsushika Hokusai (1760-1849), (posted by Peregrine Fisher).]

Hans Holbein's Totentanz

Death takes the Duke in the very act of turning
away from the pleas of a poor woman and child.

        Totentanz is German for Dance of Death, also sometimes referred to in English by the French name Danse Macabre.  The Dance of Death is an allegory that arose in the early fifteenth century to remind people that Death comes for everyone.  It usually shows Death, generally personified as a skeleton, summoning people of all different ages and stations of life.  The idea was to admonish people (in pictures, as most were illiterate) not to set store by the glories of earthly life, for death unites us all.

        If this seems a bit morbid in our modern era, keep in mind that the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries in Europe were one long parade of famine, warfare, and plague, not to mention the high mortality rates of mothers and infants and, well, everybody, even under "normal" circumstances.  Death was indeed an ever-present shadow, and the Dance of Death images combined both responses to that threat: the religious fervor and the desire to make merry as long as one still could.  We'll all be summoned by Death sooner or later, but we may as well go out dancing.

The Nun is in her rich apartment listening to the serenade
of her lover... when Death extinguishes her candles.

        Hans Holbein the Younger
(c. 1498 - 1543) happens to be my favorite portrait painter of all time, but I hadn't been familiar with his work as a woodblock designer.  He made his Totentanz woodcut designs while living in Basel in the 1520's before he had become famous for his portraiture.  The Reformation reached Basel around the same time, and Holbein was doing commissions for Catholics, Lutherans, and Humanists, mostly doing murals and woodcut designs.  (Remember that Holbein did not carve the wood blocks.  That was done by Hans Lützelburger, the finest Form-schneider of his day.   See here for a description of the woodblock printing process of the time.)  Holbein designed 41 wood blocks in the series.  In 1545 another twelve images were added by someone else, after Lützelburger had died and Holbein was living in England.

Is it a coincidence that Death seem so
cheerful about assisting the doctor in
his treatment of the patient?

        Holbein's Dance of Death wasn't first published until 1538, possibly because of disapproval of its content - it was pretty seditious in some ways, highlighting the corruption of pope, emperor, and magistrate, among others.  Despite or because of this, it was popular enough to change the Dance of Death genre.  For example, before Holbein it had been common to depict Death and all the people in one large scene dancing together (perhaps pointing more directly to the Black Death and other episodes where many people were struck down at once.)  Holbein instead showed separate vignettes of each person being summoned in his or her own daily environment.  Sometimes Death is actually the one killing the victim, not just notifying him that his time has come, as had been the standard before.  Holbein's Death is often quite mischievous, as for example stealing the rich man's money, or trying to draw the astrologer's attention away from the heavenly spheres and toward contemplation of a skull instead.  

As Death leads away the Old Woman, perhaps he's
finally showing a more lovable side, helping her
along with music and dancing.

        Speaking of skulls, I can't help thinking that Holbein might have felt a special affection for his Death figures, since Hohlbein is German for "hollow bone," which could be a riddling term for "skull."

        At this time of year people in my neighborhood blithely decorate their houses with skeletons, skulls, and Grim Reapers, thinking of it as fun and festive.  It occurs to me that perhaps we should reconsider our condescension toward people in what we like to call Dark Ages and ignorant times -- they apparently had a much more sophisticated and multi-faceted view of images of Death.  What we glance at and dismiss as cute holiday decor they would perceive as moral lesson, social commentary, and humor, simultaneously knowing the very real fear of Death and acknowledging what it says about life.

        If you want to see all of Holbein's Totentanz images you can find them at various websites.  Try this one, or the images at Wikimedia Commons, (where I got the ones I've shown here.  Many thanks!)

[Pictures: The Duke, The Nun, The Doctor, The Old Woman, wood block prints designed by Hans Holbein, c. 1526, and carved by Hans Lützelburger before 1538.]

The Listeners

     Walter de la Mare's poem "The Listeners" was one of the first longer poems I memorized, having fallen in love with its evocative and mysterious images.  De la Mare (1873-1956) was known for many rather mysterious, romantic, and supernatural stories and poems for children and adults, but "The Listeners" (first published in 1912) is his most-anthologized.

        It occurred to me that it would be fun to try illustrating it, because I thought the lighting - all dark but for the moonlight - would be a real challenge.  I sketched out all my outlines without having decided on exactly which areas would be dark and which would be light.  I began carving before making many decisions, which can be a pretty dangerous practice, since the way an area gets carved will differ depending on whether the adjoining space is dark or light.  Still, I think it turned out pretty well.  I couldn't manage the dramatic lighting I had hoped for on the Traveller, and I'm not happy with the smaller tree in the center.  On the other hand, I really like the moonlit leaves of the larger tree.  At any rate, without further ado, one of my favorite poems:

        The Listeners

‘Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller,   

   Knocking on the moonlit door;

And his horse in the silence champed the grasses   

   Of the forest’s ferny floor:

And a bird flew up out of the turret,   

   Above the Traveller’s head:

And he smote upon the door again a second time;   

   ‘Is there anybody there?’ he said.

But no one descended to the Traveller;   

   No head from the leaf-fringed sill

Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,   

   Where he stood perplexed and still.

But only a host of phantom listeners   

   That dwelt in the lone house then

Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight   

   To that voice from the world of men:

Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,   

   That goes down to the empty hall,

Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken   

   By the lonely Traveller’s call.

And he felt in his heart their strangeness,   

   Their stillness answering his cry,

While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,   

   ’Neath the starred and leafy sky;

For he suddenly smote on the door, even   

   Louder, and lifted his head:—

‘Tell them I came, and no one answered,   

   That I kept my word,’ he said.

Never the least stir made the listeners,   

   Though every word he spake

Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house   

   From the one man left awake:

Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,   

   And the sound of iron on stone,

And how the silence surged softly backward,   

   When the plunging hoofs were gone.

[Picture: The Listeners, rubber block print by AEGN, 2010.]

Portrait of an Open Studio Weekend

     I spent this past weekend sitting at a table carving, surrounded by my wares, while I waited for my adoring public to purchase armloads of art and books for everyone they knew.  If the mini-trend of those two days is any indication, the economy is improving rapidly, because Saturday was a desolate consumer wasteland, while Sunday brought pretty good sales.  (I'm enough of a puritan not to blame people for deciding that my art is a luxury they can do without when they have to conserve their money.  But I certainly like it better when everyone's feeling flush!)

(All my racks of cards and matted prints are
out of the picture to my right.)

        So here's how a typical Open Studio experience goes for me:  First of all, I'm never actually in my studio.  I always choose to show in group space, because it's more interesting to be with other artists, more visitors come by, my studio is out of the way and nothing to look at anyway (consisting, as it does, of an ordinary room in my house), and my carving is portable enough that I can demonstrate it anywhere.  So, there are weeks of preparation, and days of packing, but things really begin when I set up on Friday.  That can take an hour or three, depending on what sort of hanging system I get to use, how far I have to haul each load from the car to my location, and so on.  (This weekend there was no hanging system at all, because I had no wall space to use - something I didn't discover until two days before.  Yikes!  A hastily devised combination of easels and peg board from the basement saved the day.)  On Saturday I pick up balloons on the way and arrive about half an hour early for last-minute set up.  Then I sit down and begin to carve the block I've prepared.  (This weekend I worked on "The Listeners," which I'll post on Friday.)

        Visitors begin to trickle in.  I smile and answer questions.  I show people how I carve and explain the block printing process.  I let people try a little carving themselves, on a scrap piece of rubber.  Kids especially love that, but so do all those adults who had to do linoleum printing once back in high school.  Sometimes, of course, people buy things, after which I resume my carving.  Whenever things are busy and I'm talking with a lot of people I get warm, and then whenever there's no one around and I sit back down quietly I get cold, and so it goes…

        At the end of the day I come home and spend the evening replacing whatever sold.  I mat up additional prints, package note cards, print, cut, and assemble more packets of book plates, and so on.  The beauty of this system is that if I have to work too hard that night, it's only because my sales were good.  And if sales were slow at least I have the consolation of getting a bit more time to relax in the evening.  If there's really a lot of work to do I finish it up on Sunday morning before Friends Meeting.  (I'm also not proud to admit that this weekend I spent a truly stupid amount of time Sunday morning trying to come up with something to wear that would balance looking nice with being able to take down and pack up a show, and being a bit autumnally chilly outside with being a bit overheated whenever I get talking to people.)

        Usually I either pack a lunch or D supportively brings me something around lunch time.  (This Sunday D thought the whole family could eat lunch together at a small restaurant near my show location.  Alas, it took so long before we were seated that I had to dash off to my post as soon as I'd placed my order.  But my loyal family came to visit me and bring me my lunch when they were finished.)  When P and T visit me, they inspect my display, inquire after sales, carve a few lines on my scrap rubber block, admire their favorite items, and are ready to move on.  Once they're gone I get back to work on the carving…  And so the second day goes much as the first (albeit with better sales on this particular weekend.)

        Around 3:30 I finished carving my block.  I used an ink pad to ink it up and print a rough impression on scrap paper, then I carved a bit more, adding more texture and detail in places, fixing up a few rough areas.  But soon I was about as finished as I could get before washing and inking it properly, and that's the point when I get bored.  Normally I try to have a second block in reserve so that I never run out of carving, but this time… well, I spent so much time getting dressed in the morning that I didn't have a chance to finish getting my second block ready.  I said I wasn't proud of it.
        At 5:00 the show closes.  All the artists start packing up.  (One of the others commented on how I must be an old hand because my set-up and take-down were so efficient.  Another of the artists really is a professional and will be on to her next show next weekend.)  I enjoy the camaraderie of the range of artists, new and old, all different media, even when we don't talk very much.  Usually we're all pretty tired.  I haul my loads out to the car (I think it took seven trips this time), drive home, and unload everything into the house.  Then D makes dinner magically appear (pizza.  I am a very lucky non-starving artist!)  I make my report to the family on sales and news, and leave the bookkeeping and all the other tasks for the next day.  And that's another show done for the year… except that this year I have my next show coming up in just three weeks, so I won't be resting on my shopworn laurels just yet.

[Pictures: me at the show, photo by DN;

carved block (The Listeners, stained with green stamp pad ink), photo by AEGN.]

Fantasy Tales of Frank R. Stockton

        I recently finished reading The Storyteller's Pack: A Frank R. Stockton Reader, and Ting-a-Ling.  I read them because I had seen Stockton mentioned as one of the first fantasy writers in the US, and I was curious.  Stockton was born in 1834, and worked as a wood engraver before switching over to writing full time.  (See?  Block printing and writing fantasy make a natural combination!)  Actually, Stockton wrote a variety of gently humorous works, not just fantasy.  Some were intended for children, some for adults; some were adventure, some rather philosophical, some satirical.  His most famous work, or at least the only one that I had previously known, was that staple of the high school short story unit "The Lady, or the Tiger?"  That's the one about the young man who's sentenced to choose between two doors, behind one of which is a lethal tiger, and behind the other of which is a woman he must marry.  I never particularly liked the story, partly because of its gimmicky non-ending, which I feel is just laziness on the part of the author, whose job it is to tell the story, and partly because, of course, I like happy endings, and this story would be hard-pressed to have one.  At any rate, I was unfamiliar with any of Stockton's other work, and my library didn't have much.  However, a lot of his work is available on Project Gutenberg.  I was pleased to find that I enjoyed a number of Stockton's tales.  Here are my favorites.

        "The Queen's Museum" - in which an entire populace ends up in jail for the crime of failing to be interested in the museum their Queen has so single-mindedly filled with her own favorite subject.  Luckily, with the help of a Stranger, a Hermit's Pupil, and a Band of Robbers, the museum can be emptied of its boring contents and refilled with more interesting stuff so that the Queen's subjects can finally be free.

        "Prince Hassak's March" - in which the high-and-mighty Prince Hassak, on his way to a neighboring country,  endures delays, imprisonment, arithmetic, jail-breaking, enforced nucleus-ship, silly outfits, and eventual Lessons Learned.  The under-quota jailer who assigns each of his guests a crime, and the irrepressible Jolly-cum-pop are particularly amusing.

        "The Banished King" - in which the King sets out to discover why his country is in such bad shape, but, due to the unfortunate failure of cell phones to have been invented yet, is forced to have a continuous line of messengers strung out behind him at intervals of 100 yards, so that no matter how far he travels from his palace, he can always send messages to the Queen simply by shouting down the line.  I particularly enjoy how he has to converse with the helpful sphinx without ever actually answering her directly, because everyone knows that people always get into trouble if they try to answer a sphinx's questions.

        "The Philopena" - in which a Prince and Princess find their childhood playmates, with a little help from an Inquisitive Dwarf, a Gryphoness, a Water Sprite, an Absolute Fool, and a ship full of Amazons.

        Ting-a-Ling - Stockton's first book, composed of 4 more-or-less unconnected fairy tales, all at least mentioning the fairy named Ting-a-ling.  Stockton is obviously influenced by Arabian Nights in the vaguely Middle Eastern setting and the stock of royalty, slaves, magicians, and people rushing around waving scimitars.  The opening story is quite gruesome in the matter of decapitations and other untimely ends, although Stockton seems confident that neither he nor any tender readers will be upset by this sort of inconvenience.  The stories are a slightly odd mix of standard fairy tale conventions, understated satire, slapstick humor, subtle social commentary, the aforementioned comic violence, and charming invention.  I wasn't utterly thrilled by the book, but there were sufficient moments of humor and clever twists that I found it enjoyable, on the whole.

        At his worst, Stockton's nineteenth century narration is measured and methodical to the point of plodding, and he presents as soul-testing dilemmas troubles that seem to me easily surmountable.  At his best, however, his whimsical imaginings have a gentle matter-of-factness, and he satirizes human foibles such as arrogance and selfishness with a wry understanding.  His characters and creatures always seem perfectly reasonable, even in the midst of the silliest folly, and he makes even the most outrageous of plots seem delightfully civilized.  All of his fantasy tales were interesting to me from a historical perspective - these were the stories that L. Frank Baum would have read with his children - but the best are definitely worth reading for their own sake.  With the magic of Project Gutenberg, I plan to read more of Stockton's fairy tales.

[Picture: title page of Ting-A-Ling, by Edmund Birckhead Bensell, 1916.]