Around Johnson--and Beyond

It's strange to be on the brink of the last five days of my residency. Time has felt stretched out through the middle of this month, but now seems to speeding up. I was also reminded of how precious the time spent in this special state (a writer's residency) where our needs are met--food, shelter, a beautiful place to walk and work, a community of creative people to socialize and collaborate with) by today's news of the coup d'etat in Honduras. We are so lucky in this country to have the freedoms we do, and how much we are able to take such rights as the freedom of speech for granted.

In a curious way, I've been struck by how open and friendly people are in this rural area. Walking around Johnson, locals often tell me stories about whatever I'm looking at--and especially what I'm taking pictures of. The stories are most often personal, and have painted a particular picture of this place. It is a somewhat different reality than being in the cloistered environment of a residency, which, now that it is going to end, feels quite precious.

A reminder that Vermont was one of the 13 colonies.

Cat Crossing--this is a first!

I was taking a picture of this and someone told me that it was so in the winter the snow plows would know a fire hydrant is there while plowing. Not like San Francisco winters!






Speaking of preparing for winter...






And now it is raining, and the stream outside my window--lazy for much of the time I've been here, is a raging brown river. When it rains here, it really does pour. Conducive for working, but intense. Here's the river just before it runs under the bridge that connects the town of Johnson to VSC.

Artist's Lives

Artist's Lives

We saw the documentary about Alice Neel last night, made by her grandson, Andrew Neel. it was so moving, as Neel was part of a generation of women that had few role models for making the choice to be an artist first. Born in 1900 and raised working class, she put herself through art school in Philadelphia. Always dedicated to her art, her life was an odyssey through husbands and children, lovers and sitters. She had her first two children with Carlos Enriquez, a Cuban painter from a wealthy family.

The first died of diptheria, and the second, a daughter named Isabetta (born 1928), she lost when Enriquez returned to Cuba (they were living in Philadelphia) with the daughter. Neel became suicidal, spent time in an asylum, and when better moved to New York. It is incredible how poor Neel was through much of her life. In 1933, Neel was hired by the WPA, which afforded her a modest weekly salary. In the 1930s Neel gained a degree of notoriety as an artist, and established a good standing within her circle of downtown intellectuals and Communist Party leaders. She was never an official member of the party, but always felt a kinship with the ideals of Communism, common for the time among liberals and intellectuals.

Then she became involved with Jose Santiago, a Puerto Rican night club singer, and had her first son, Richard. They moved uptown, to Spanish Harlem, which she said was the "kiss of death" for her career. Even though she wasn't selling her work at all when she lived in the Village, she was in the heart of the creative community there. She separated from Jose, and a few years later, had her second son, Hartley, with her then-lover Sam Brody.
Although Brody was abusive, one of the things she remarked on in the film was the fact that he was the first person to truly believe in her as a painter. This was one of the tragic facets of her life, as the abuse took such a huge toll on her sons' lives, fully evident in watching them talk about their growing up and their mother. They both discuss how difficult their lives were--being so poor, their mother's focus on being an artist (her studio was the focal point of their small NY apartment), and the horrors of Sam Brody. Yet, they did not reject her, and in their ways, seem to accept the choices she made. It seems that this is the way life is--no matter what life you are born into, ultimately--hopefully--you try to find a way to resolve what happened. Especially when it comes to your family. So complex.

The most amazing part of the film was watching Neel paint, which occupies much of the footage. She talks a great deal about her life, and observing her painting some of the amazing portraits that were the focus of her life--Meyer Shapiro, Virgil Thompson, and an amazing portrait of Andy Warhol after he had been shot (among the famous); her sons, husband, Isabetta as a child; and the various individuals who populated her life, first in the Village, and later in Spanish Harlem--was astounding. She had a remarkable ability to make her sitters feel comfortable, and her portraits, for me, are like Picasso's: penetrating, distilling the essence of a person with an economy of means. The eyes of her sitters are amazing, and her dedicated choice to paint minimal settings, and to strip away unnecessary detail have astounding effect.

The film is so powerful, it made me and others in the room cry--we were so overcome with emotion because she was so well intentioned, so challenged by the circumstances of her life (female, mostly single, raising two children); dedicated to her work as a painter; and so talented. It was tremendously moving that she did get recognition in her lifetime--a solo show at the Whitney Museum of American Art, and receiving an award from the American Academy and Institute of Arts and Letters in New York. These awards and recognition were late in life, and through it all, she just kept painting.

Some of those who spoke of her remarkable influence in the film include Robert Storr, Chuck Close, and Marlene Dumas, all of whom talk about her power in capturing character. As Neel said, "I want to capture the zeitgeist," and I believe in many ways she did capture the vulnerability and humanity of her time in powerful ways.

If you are surprised by my passion for this painter, take a look at the film. I'd love to hear your thoughts about it. Here's the link for it: http://www.aliceneelfilm.com/.





Here's an interview with her grandson, Andrew Neel, about the film:

BEING ALICE
Andrew Neel goes behind his grandmother's expressionistic paintings to reveal an intimate side of the legendary portraitist

• The paintings of Alice Neel stare you down. Neel’s subject is intimacy, and her cool portraits of friends and family, New York sophisticates or neighorhood children, all have the haunting ability of freezing you in place, almost surveying you as you study them in and out of clothes or marriages or pregnancies or chairs. It is rather fitting that director Andrew Neel has chosen to make a documentary of his own departed grandmother, splicing archival footage of the artist with interviews of family members and fellow painters. Because capturing the full range of a person seems to be something of a Neel talent. The resultant documentary Alice Neel premiered this spring, and it’s one of the most moving portraits of a difficult icon to make it to the screen in some time. The young Neel answered a few of our questions about memorializing his grandmother.

CHRISTOPHER BOLLEN Were you aware as a child that your grandmother was a famous artist?
ANDREW NEEL Not really. I knew there was something important about what she was doing, but one doesn't really grasp the concept of 'famous' at that age.
CB In the film, Alice’s sons seem to have pushed away from bohemianism. Do you think it skipped a generation and you have something of your grandmother’s bend?
AN Well, I think my parents are eccentrics. They are bohemians in their own way...and I think my sister and I inherited some of their eccentricities. But really the answer to your questions is yes. Hartley and his brother [Alice's sons] were searching for security in their private and personal lives. My sister Elizabeth and I really are not as interested in the trappings of the buttoned-up work-a-day world...marriage...babysitters, etc.
CB Did you find it difficult to interview your own family? Did they try to prevent certain topics being raised?
AN I think it was as hard as any other interview where you are asking intimate questions. Hartley and Richard don’t like subjects that put Alice in a bad light. They loved her and respected her so much. They are annoyed when people focus on the sensational details (that are usually bad). So they were somewhat resistant to talking about some of that stuff. But in the end, being smart people, they felt I was trying to accomplish something interesting and that was more important than controlling information.
CB What did you discover about your grandmother that you didn't know before you started?
AN She had a still-born child in 1939 with Jose (that detail didn't make it into the movie). I can't say I had any sort of dramatic discovery, but my whole conception of her became much more dense and complete.
CB One of the themes of the documentary is that of motherhood—specifically, was Alice Neel a good mother? Did she protect her children, even from her art? What were your conclusions on this?
AN I don’t like making conclusions about people. I think it’s a limited way of looking, especially at enigmatic people like Alice. She didn't protect them as well as she might have in certain situations. I think she made mistakes. But despite that, she was a wonderful mother. She got them all the amenities and advantages of wealthy children. She got them into private schools. She sent them to prestigious piano lessons and ballet school. She saved money in her mattress and bought them Lionel Train sets (which only the wealthy kids had in those days). She gave them self confidence and a respect for art and learning.
CB What do you think is harder—to be a painter in Alice Neel’s day or a documentary filmmaker in Andrew Neel’s day?
AN Being a painter in Alice Neel's day was harder, without a doubt. We have so many places we can show our films today. That doesn't make it peachy. Sometimes it makes it more annoying...but easier too.
CB What is your favorite painting by your grandmother?
AN Joe Gould 1933 (because it freaks people out); Julie and Alges (because it's hot and twisted in some sort of weird, pregnant way); Randal in Extremes (because it's a testament to how hard and anxious it is to be a human being).

Images, in order:

Spanish Harlem

Alice with Enrique, Chester Springs, 1924

Isabetta, 1934

Composite image w/Alice in Studio

Hartley, 1965

Alice with Model

Two Girls, 1959

Andy Warhol, 1970

Alice at opening of her retrospective,

Whitney Museum of American Art, 1980

Studio Notes

One week into being at Vermont Studio Center, things have evolved. The edit of my manuscript is in progress, and I'm working on getting 15-20 pages in the shape I want in order to give them to Sigrid Nunez, this week's writer in residence. Sigrid is a fiction writer, whose texts seem to be memoir, but she says are really fiction. She did a reading last Thursday, and it brought to mind how the best fiction does make one question whether the writing is autobiography or is constructed. I personally think it is some of both. Jumpha Lahiri and Augusten Burroughs straddle this line (among many). If you think about visual art, the same is always true in some way; the work is more or less autobiographical depending on the creator, but if you probe a bit, the personal revelation eventually becomes evident.

One thing I have been interested in for several years is sound and the sound of places. Jane Trowell, James Marriott, and Dan Gretton, who jointly founded the artist collective Platform London, talked about this when I first met and interviewed them in 2001. One of the many walks we took in London, they pointed out how various streets had been paved (many with cobblestones) by the Romans more than 1000 years ago, right over existing rivers. Fleet Street covers part of the Fleet River, and there are various other examples of this. They described the loss of voice of those covered streams as "aphonia," and I have mused on that idea of loss of voice ever since. How we have silenced rivers; made them mute; stolen their ability to speak.

This has been brought to mind by the river that runs through the Vermont Studio Center, and happens to be directly outside the writer's studios. It is a constant auditory presence, though usually a quiet and "white noise" one. However, listen to it on this video.



PS The sound you hear is only the river.

There is a long planned construction of a new bridge over the river, which began just before we arrived last weekend. It doesn't really bother us, but this is what it looks like:






Today, the river is quieter, and this is what I saw and heard outside the window.






Last but not least:
This week's Bonus image: what is it?
Let me know and I'll tell you what it is, and what it reminds me of.

It's so fascinating to be in this residency program with 49 other residents. We're in day 2, and today everyone seems tired, as though the adrenalin rush we all came here on has gone into the ether. Now we get to become present. Having spent my first day getting my Creative Capital grant finished and sent off, I too am tired, but that gets to be OK. I am realizing that I am so used to jamming all the time in order to find space to write in the cracks between my demanding work life, that having this space to primarily be a writer--with my other work life being in the cracks--is going to take some getting used to. I am among those who has spent much of the past 36 hours doggedly working in the studio, but we are all realizing it's not possible to keep up that pace and really get anything done. It is very validating to have a group of people going through the same process together.

The demographics of the group are really interesting. The first night the director gave a speech, and told us that their selection process is based on picking a group that has both affinities and diversity. So in a group of 50 artists and writers, there are 10 individuals in their 20s, 30s, 40s, 50s, and 60s. I like that model, and it has felt very comfortable for that reason. I have been spending time with all sorts of folks, and there is a real pleasure in that. Last night I took a walk with two other writers, one who regularly contributes to the Washington Post, and is a character. Another writer with us is hispanic, from New York City, and very different in sensibility. They both have kids, and the flow of conversation felt interesting and natural, as we walked up to Johnson State College on the hill above us. The campus is gorgeous--sort of a cross between Reed College and UC Santa Cruz (it's hilly). A very nice security guard asked us if we'd like to see the inside of any buildings, and I instantly said, "the art department." So we were allowed into the building, which has beautiful big studios, well equipped shops, and picture windows that let you see the very green (as of this season) landscape outside. It must be very white in their long winters--he told us winter is a full six months, which I must confess would be a real deterrent for me if I were to consider living here on an extended basis.

I have also enjoyed getting to know some of the younger residents--painters, sculptors, and this morning met the artist living next door to me in Mason House (my residential house). She looks to be in her early 30s, and lives and teaches new genres (video, installation, etc.) in LA at Otis Art Institute. I liked her too, and it felt good to know I like my next door neighbor, since we'll be sharing a space for the month.

The food is really good--all fresh, salads at lunch and dinner with balsamic and olive oil. to splash on it, chicken or fish options and good vegetables and some sort of starch--little roasted potatoes, or some very good macaroni and cheese at yesterday's lunch. I am hungry a lot (all that fresh air?) but there is always fruit available, as well as coffee and tea. It really is like the perfect summer camp for grown ups. The village of Johnson (it feels like a village, though I don't know if it's actually designated that way) is small, with the requisite bookstore, stocked with good books including one area of VSC resident's writings; a funky coffee and snacks shop (the coffee is very good); and the rest I have yet to explore. I will find the laundromat later in the week, and I was told there are two thrift stores that I'll have to check out. There are also several bars, which I've learned through traveling alot is common in small towns, and a grocery store that sells wine and the New York Times. All good stuff.

The tiny town is definitely class divided, between tourists, which the stores tend to cater to; students from Johnson State College; those of us in the residency program, who use all the services, but especially the coffee and grocery stores, the laundromat, post office, and the library; and residents of this place. Walking to the library, it was surprising to see how modest and slightly dilapidated the streets off the main drag are, a reminder that supporting oneself in this economy and in a rural setting can't be easy.

I will continue to regale you with my tales, but now, having given myself the morning to take it a bit easier, am ready to do some work in my studio. First, to organize more of the book files I've brought to work with--and later to begin to set how I'm going to work on my manuscript. Like many of the people I've met so far, I still have a few things to take care of before I'm entirely free of my home/work life--a review to finish, an interview for another publication to finish, a few other odds and ends I can space out through the next week or two--but basically, the coast seems clear.

One interesting note about the Vermont Studio Center is that most of the buildings and all of the writing studios have name placards on them. I happen to have inherited Dr. Marjorie Atwood, who it turns out was a writer with an interest in the religious art of Mexico, Spain, and New Mexico. I've dropped in a link for her below so you can see more about her.

http://www.whoi.edu/page.do?pid=10934&tid=282&cid=3002&ct=163


PS The chair by the window, with the stacked pillowcases is all my files--my manuscript--which I am now going to tend to. It is, after all, why I'm here--although being a writer full time is really the reason, so I can fully justify the time I'm spending writing this blog!

Vermont Beginnings

At last, after seemingly endless preparations, I am sitting in my writing studio in Vermont. The transition to being here was fairly low key, once I arrived in Burlington, probably in part because I was both low-key excited and exhausted. Ironically, the first person I talked to on leaving the airport was the African taxi driver (as the majority of cab drivers here seem to be) who complained endlessly to me, in response to my question, "how do you like it here," that there are "too many homosexuals." However, that seems to have been an anomaly, as almost everyone else in Burlington was super nice and seemed to love it here.



I have been amazed, ever since the plane began its approach to Burlington, over the Green Mountains, at how lushly green it is. Spending time on the East Coast always reminds me how relatively dry it is in the West, especially this time of year. It is also quite the contrast to the fairly urban-bound life I've led for the last number of years.

Burlington is the home of the University of Vermont, and my first night was colorfully punctuated by dinner in a part of the downtown area that was made into a no car zone. A jazz festival was in progress, and the streets were fairly packed with folks wandering in the pleasantly cool night, and the packed bars and restaurants. I had very good Thai food, and enjoyed taking in the local scene. The next morning continued my adventures in food and music in the local natural foods supermarket, where I ate a decent Vermont bagel (they are sort of flat and dense, but very tasty) and listened to a trio of young blue grass guitarists who set up and began to play in the little cafe area of Good Seasons.

I wasn't sure what to expect, as they spent quite a bit of time in a "hey dude" mode, but once they started to play I really was transported. It even made up for the fairly bad art hanging in the space.




So here I am, writing in my beautiful studio that overlooks the river, visible to my right out the large window. I keep pinching myself, as it feels like such a gift to be here. More soon.