“Bryn Mawr,” the
title of this book, is a Welsh phrase that literally translates to “Big
Hill.” Picture Andrew Wyeth’s classic
painting, “Christina’s World,” with the woman sitting in the field and the big
house in the distance, on top of that hill… “Bryn Mawr.”
A visiting
artist saw the paintings that make the pages of this book in the early ‘90’s. She said that they reminded her of “Bryn Mawr.” It was a
reference to the Brandywine School of painting, typified by Wyeth.
This was a surprise because such imagery was the furthest thing from my mind. The level of detail associated with Andrew Wyeth’s paintings was absent from this artwork.
"Pa-rurw," 30" x 22", acrylic on paper, 1993
Two distinctly different bodies of work meet in “Bryn Mawr.” A newer aesthetic overlays paintings from nearly 35 years ago. As such, not only are they from different times, but they have different motivations, and personal histories.
To put the earlier body of work into context: I was only sporadically making artwork for about 8 years from the mid 80’s to the early 90’s. Life was happening; my career as a cabinet maker had begun immediately upon graduating from art school in 1984.
It was a good vocation, and necessary to make
a living.
While the
field started out deeply engaging, over the decades it became a grind. It was hard work, on your feet
all day, and the hours and energy it required stunted what I saw as my studio
life.
Certainly,
it’s an artistic field in its own right; but cabinet making is a craft marked
by repetition and tedium, as well as regular overtime. The attention to detail required is anything
but expressive. It is a terribly fussy
business to produce other people’s designs.
Your work conforms to blueprints and architects, as well as home owners
who are paying a lot for custom furnishings.
When I did get into the studio, it was to blow off steam; slamming away at very messy, highly textural stuff.
Thrashing.
But I’ve gotten ahead of myself.Back then,
in the mid-80’s, I met and married an artist who was also a graduate of my school,
the Corcoran College of Art & Design in Washington, DC. These were difficult years because neither of
us wanted to be burdened with our jobs, each of us having serious studio-artist
aspirations. Eventually, we would leave
Washington, DC, and move down to the Atlantic coast, to the idyllic eastern
shore of Maryland.
Unfortunately,
within 6 weeks of that move, my wife discovered a lump on her breast, and three
years later lost her life to that cancer.
I was the
primary caretaker for those years, and as you might imagine, I made no artwork
during this time.
Then one
night, about a month after her passing, I was sitting on the sofa watching
“Roseanne.” I said to myself that if I
were an artist I would be up in that studio, in my wife’s space, making
art. I turned off that TV and went
upstairs to begin a body of work that would continue for 20 years. The pages of "Bryn Mawr" are from the first years of that series.
After some
time, a series of drawings had emerged: renderings
of isolated cubes set in an abstract landscape.
(There was a box-making endeavor happening in my own shop at the
time.) These landscape backgrounds
became so compelling that I stopped using the cubes entirely. The images were reduced to a simple horizon
line with different textural fields above and below, as you see in this book.
But what does one do with a body of artwork? The classic artist’s conundrum. These paintings were never shown. They were easy enough to store and transport though, being works on paper.
Binding them into a book would make them even more convenient for storage and transportation. However, I don’t see myself as a book artist. This idea was a matter of convenience and book making is its own art form.
Books imply a narrative, a story. They start somewhere and then end up somewhere else. This was an issue. They didn’t go anywhere. This was just old work and it needed to be more.
Since that original body of artwork nearly 35 years ago, the aesthetic had pivoted from an expressionistic abstract type to a geometric body of work. I had retired from being a cabinetmaker in the wake of the real estate bubble burst in 2008.
It took some
time to realize it, years in fact, but there was no longer any reason to thrash
away in the studio—there was no steam to blow off steam because my frustrating
daily grind was over. A bit of an
existential crisis…
We had moved
to upstate New York, and took a day trip to visit the Dia: Beacon Foundation. It was a museum of classic Minimal
art, housed in a renovated factory that once produced boxes for the Nabisco
Company. The artwork was impactful: collections of John Chamberlain’s crushed
automobile sculptures, Michael Heizer’s enormous boulders mounted into walls, and
Richard Sierra’s huge curved steel walls were heavy hitters.
One morning
in the wake of that visit, as I was making the bed I had a conversation
in my head with a struggling artist. I
told them that if I were them, I’d get some paper and start making drawings of
squares.
Realizing
that I was talking to myself, literally, I finished making the bed as quickly
as possible, ran to the store and bought a pack of computer paper and sat down
to draw those squares.
To my utter surprise,
I found myself longing for the technical demands of custom woodworking! A lot of skill and discipline had been
instilled during 25 years in the field. I immersed myself in drafting exercises, working through ideations of squares,
circles, and the like.
Now, over 15
years later, this geometric language has transformed considerably through many
iterations, resulting in the hexagonal designs on these pages of “Bryn Mawr.”
Rhombus/Hexagon Connections, 2023
This change in aesthetic was an accurate reflection of my life situation, just as the bleak landscapes represented my condition in the wake of my first wife's death.I was able
to retire from work in 2011, because of my wife’s success in her career in
higher education. Thirty years ago, when
we met on a blind date, she was a college professor. Over time Deb became involved in administration,
eventually ascending to the rank of college president! In 2021 she was also able to retire and is a full-time
quilter.
It’s because
of her love, success, and indulgence that I’m able to be a full-time studio artist. Thank you, Deb.
This is how the book comes to be. It is a
depiction of the effects of love on a desolate life. The big hill book, “Bryn Mawr,” is about elevating
a former life and allowing the past to be passed.
What is passed provides a background upon which a beautiful, pristine
design is presented, rather than being the whole picture.
“Bryn Mawr” is
a love story; it’s about the change that love makes. These few pages reveal a before-and-after
combination of completely different styles and techniques that tells a
wonderful story. A story I didn’t even realize
until sitting down to write about it.
And they lived happily ever after :)
