New York Dog House Mural - Meet the Artist

I'm very happy to announce that a restaurant/bar New York Dog House in Astoria that I painted a 3-wall mural for earlier in the year has just opened for business! I had a great time working on such a large scale and getting to experiment with the industrial of the restaurant in the textural paint and design. The mural is called "Astoria Swing" and is a jazz-inspired vision of the dynamic and vibrant industrial landscape of Astoria and the elevated subway tracks of the N-Q line.

NY Dog House is hosting a "Meet the Artist" event on Friday, October 18th starting at 6:00 pm. I'll be there, as well as some delicious food and great drinks, so I hope to see you all there! Also on display are some of my reportage drawings from around New York City with originals and prints available for purchase.

 

Preparatory drawing for the mural.

Bethesda Terrace

 

This summer, I spent a couple lovely weeks drawing at Central Park's own magical pool of healing, The Bethesda Terrace.

 

Here are a few of the pastel paintings I made during my self-imposed "residency." So nice to be able to take advantage of the nice weather and living near one of the most beautiful urban parks in the world.

Animal Kingdom

My favorite park in DisneyWorld is always Animal Kingdom. Having dreamed of going to the African Serengeti since I was little, Disney gives me a little taste of it to hold me over until I can go see the real thing. There is something about the art, the music, the landscape, the culture, and the animals of Africa that feels rhythmic, honest, and full of personality.

The sable antelope is the symbol of the Harambe Wildlife Preserve, where the safari tours take place.

Wildebeest nap in the shade, a mother elephant and her baby stroll past a baobab tree, and okapi and bongos hide amongst the leaves in the forest.

Giraffes lope gracefully along the open hills.

Hippos bob like corks in the river.

Rhinos, zebra, and ostriches dot the grasslands in a vibrating tapestry.

Deeper in the forest, the shy okapi nibble on leaves.

Brilliant yellow weaver birds flicker through the dense canopy.

Blue cichlids glow in the cool, shady riverbed.

Disney's Electric Light Parade

I just returned from another wonderful drawing workshop in DisneyWorld, Florida, with Dalvero Academy. 9 days of drawing and study in the hottest place on Earth! I decided to post a series of cut paper sample posters I did of the Electric Light Parade in Magic Kingdom from my trip last year that never got posted. It's always a lot of fun to hear the beeping and whirring come down the street, with all the main lights off and just the twinkling of the parade and the outlines of Main Street USA. Plus, the retro video game music kind of puts you in a trance after a long day of drawing.

 

 

(I am not affiliated with Disney in any way, nor are the posters. They are just for fun.)

The Launch of the Charles W. Morgan

“Human beings have always celebrated resurrection, restoration, renewal and return.

The only thing greater than the miracle of life itself can sometimes seem to be

the miracle of something brought back to life…"

 Ric Burns, Mystic Seaport, July 21, 2013

This July 21st, the 172nd anniversary of the Charles W. Morgan’s first voyage, the last wooden whaleship in the world was lowered back into the Mystic River after 5 years of painstaking restoration.

I have been documenting the restoration of the Morgan with Dalvero Academy since 2009, so it was a very exciting day for us to be able to witness and document her return to the water. Our show, Restoring a Past, Charting a Future, will still be on view at Mystic Seaport through this September.

We arrived the day before to see her out on dry land one last time, this time perched at the edge of the pier on her stilts.

The Morgan boasted a fresh new paint job since our last visit, with numbers on her bow that we knew would soon be submerged in the river. 

 

Most of the ship we had drawn and explored for 4 years would soon be gone, and I couldn’t help feeling a bit of melancholy along with the excitement.

 

The next morning, we arrived early to see the set-up, only to be greeted by giant storm clouds and intermittent downpours. We huddled inside sheds, under overhangs, and under the tents watching as the ship’s crew prepared for the day ahead.

The crew toasted her rebirth with a swig of rum, and then passed the bottle to us, like part of the team.

 

Finally the clouds parted, and crowds began to fill every corner of the shipyard. 

Quentin Snediker, the head of the shipyard and our guide through the restoration process, attended to the preparations with stoic calm.

More and more spectators filtered in, buzzing with anticipation.

State troopers surrounded the center platform as curious kayakers began to flock around the river to watch the ceremony.

The speeches began with the president of Mystic Seaport, Stephen C. White, as he proclaimed the magnitude and the significance of the Morgan’s next journey.

Camera crews swirled as the dignitaries gave their speeches, with the keynote from documentary filmmaker, Ric Burns.

The honor of the christening of the ship was given to Sarah Bullard, the great-great-great granddaughter of Charles W. Morgan himself.

Bullard’s granddaughter, little Polly Morgan and her family waved to her from the crowd. She will be the next generation to inherit the Morgan and her legacy.

The snowy haired duo, Quentin Snediker and Sarah Bullard, stood beneath crowning bow of the ship, like proud parents sending their daughter off into the world.

The ship would be christened with water from each of the seas the Morgan sailed, and a drop of rum for luck.

With a crash, Bullard inaugurated the Morgan's descent into the water, and a cheer erupted from the shipyard and the river.

We all watched as she began to disappear into the river, and I noticed Quentin looking on. Only he and the shipwrights could know the thousands of hours and hands that went into carefully shaping each timber and plank of wood that now disappeared beneath the water, gently cradling the ship and keeping her afloat. At the end of her slow descent, the numbers on her bow vanished, one by one into the water. As the '9' broke the surface, the call went out "She is afloat!" and again the crowd burst into raucous applause.

As she went beneath the water, I imagined all the hands and souls that left their mark and went down with her. I watched her there, half submerged, hoping that the generations to come will know how far her depths reach below that water.

Monet's Gardens

 

The next stop for drawing after the Canson Prix was to Monet's Gardens in Giverny, about 45 minutes outside of Paris. My mom, Chris, and I took the train out to the country early in the morning and spent the whole day wandering around the house and the extravagant grounds that Monet created.

Outside the house, the gardens are so thick with flowers that it's hard to find the paths in between the flowerbeds. From fence to fence, there are irises in every shade of purple and yellow, as big as grapefruits, peonies the size of basketballs, and poppies bigger than dinner plates resting on the ground because their comparatively puny stems can't support them.

It is a wonderland for an impressionist, with every color, mark, and shape imaginable, crammed into a beautiful plot on the French countryside.

With each flower more spectacular than the next, it was hard to focus on one thing for very long. I felt like one of the lucky Giverny honey bees flitting from flower to flower, trying my best not to sting any dazed, ambling tourists that got in my way.

 

Every once in a while a single flower happened to jump out.

Compared to the rowdy mob of flowers near the house, each shouting for attention, Monet's famous waterlily pond was like a quiet conversation between friends about how pretty they all are.

The tranquil pond, ringed with weeping willows and irises, and dotted with lilies and baby ducklings, is like a fairytale (stuffed with as many tourists as can possibly fit). It is easy to see how Monet could have spent the last years of his life needing nothing but to contemplate the little oasis he created for himself.

The Eiffel Tower

While in Paris for the Prix Canson 2013, Chris and I took a few extra days to go draw around Paris. One of our nicest days was spent relaxing in the shade of the gardens around the Eiffel Tower. The Tower is so perfectly Parisian, like all of the wrought iron balconies from the buildings of Paris decided to get together and make a building of their own.

I love having a park around the Tower. It would be nice if 34th St in Manhattan were a gorgeous planted promenade in front of the Empire State Building, built so we could all laze around and marvel at it.

We stayed there the whole day, watching the the color shift across the Tower as the sun drifted closer to the horizon and sank behind the trees.

Prix Canson 2013

I just returned from a wonderful trip to Paris as one of 39 nominees for the international competition, Le Prix Canson. The Prix is sponsored by Canson, a leading paper company since 1557, to promote emerging artists working with paper.

I was honored to be nominated as the artist for Canson USA, and thrilled to be able to be in Paris for the awards ceremony and exhibition at the Petit Palais, Musée des Beaux-Arts de la Ville de Paris. A big thank you to Robert Toth and Giulia Giovanelli and everyone at Canson for the nomination and all of the arrangements.

Chris and I arriving for the reception at the Petit Palais. Photo by Mom (not pictured).

My drawing, above, from my reportage of a zelij tile workshop in Fes, Morocco, was part of the exhibit.

 

Although I didn't win the prize, the winner was Zimbabwean artist Virginia Chihota, it was wonderful to be able to enjoy the beautiful reception in the courtyard at night, and see my work on the wall in the museum. The Petit Palais is one of the most beautiful buildings I've seen in Paris. Designed for the 1900 Universal Exposition in Paris, it is in the Art Nouveau style with (somewhat) toned-down and elegant decoration compared to a lot of Parisian grandeur.

In the days around the event, Chris and I took some time to relax and draw in the Tuileries Gardens, near the Louvre.

We sipped fresh-squeezed orange juice and café crème while watching the Parisians and tourists lounge languidly under the dappled shade of the square-cropped chestnut trees. Ahh Paris!

The girl at the table next to us puffed lazily on her cigarette, scrawled dramatically into her notebook, and personified perhaps dozens of French artist stereotypes at once. My hunch is that she was an American college student studying abroad.

It was a wonderful experience, and so magical to be in Paris in June. Every single iris was in bloom! Stay tuned for more drawings from the rest of my trip!

Spring in Mystic Seaport

Two weekends ago, I was able to return to Mystic Seaport with Dalvero Academy to take advantage of the spring weather. It was so nice to wander around the seaport and simply enjoy the beauty of it.

 

The river rippled under the groaning weight of the tall-ships, and parted as candy-colored sailboats slipped through the waves. Men and women bellowed work songs as they climbed into the rigging and hoisted the sails.

Boats tied to the piers creaked and swayed against the dock.

 

The work on the last wooden whaleship in the world, The Charles W. Morgan, nears completion as workers hammered and slathered the outside hull with paint before returning her to the water in July.

The salty air fluttered through the branches, tinkling the newly sprouted leaves like wind chimes, and washing away the winter chill.

Feeling

Often the hardest thing for me to do is stop thinking.

Spring!

It's spring!

Yay!

Indoor Drawing

Seeing as Spring still hasn't come to New York, I've been getting my drawing fix indoors at Grand Central and Rockefeller Center these past couple weeks.

Both spots are always good for people watching.

 

You can always see interesting people and dynamics if you just sit and watch.

Whether it's people together...

 

...by themselves....

  ...or moving in a crowd,

 

there is always something new to see.

Morocco: Return to Fes

After the Sahara, we returned to Fes for a couple days and then headed back to New York. Morocco is an amazing place, but not always an easy one. It's exhausting and magical at the same time.

There aren't a lot of places in the world where you can make a drawing like the one above: There is a man riding side-saddle on a mule, who is stepping daintily over the cobblestones of a precariously narrow medieval street perched on a steep hillside, while a man in the distance twirls silk into thread down the long winding streets, as the sun begins to set, turning the whole street to gold.

I certainly can't wait to go back.

Morocco: The Iron Worker

When we returned to Fes, Chris and I went out into the souks and happened upon a tiny, unusual shop on one of the many alleys of craftsmen. The man, dressed in black and grey with salt & pepper hair, was making black iron work with silver wire hammered into intricate designs. The iron-worker was such a sweet man, and a real artist. We found out later that the technique is one called Damasquine, and is a Moroccan version of a Syrian craft that originally used gold wire in much more formal Islamic designs. This man, while he created the more formal Moroccan style work as well, had walls of beautiful and whimsical animals that he had drawn himself. They felt like little Picasso drawings made out of iron and silver.

After picking out all of our Christmas gifts for the year, we asked if we could stay and draw him while he worked. We were able to see him create one animal from, from start to finish, in his tiny 5x5 shop.

He began by sawing the iron into the shape of a fish.

 

He then scored the iron and polished it with a jade-tipped utensil.

Then he heated the iron in a burner and it came out hot and jet black.

Then, using a tiny hammer, he hammered the silver wire into a design, like drawing.

 Once he finished, he polished it again with the jade, and gave it to us as a gift. It was so wonderful to see someone so passionate about what he was doing. His father had done Damasquine in gold, and he was the 5th generation of Damasquine workers in his family. He is the only one to practice the craft in Fes (although a dozen or so others do in the nearby city of Meknes), and he said that while his children enjoy drawing, they didn't like the hard manual labor that goes with creating the iron work, so he may be the last.

Morocco: The Blue City

We took a short trip from Fez, through the Rif mountains to the beautiful blue city of Chefchaouen. The small town lies perched on a hillside in a valley surrounded by soaring, jagged peaks.

Since the 1930's, the walls of Chefchaouen's medina have been washed with blue pigment (possibly as a result of Jewish immigrants fleeing Europe). Thick layers of every color of blue imaginable coat the walls and streets of the city.

Because of the sheer cliffs of the Riff mountains, the city is connected by a web of incredibly steep stone staircases, which surprise you with bizarre, twisting, otherworldly views.

Some streets have so many colors at once that they feel like an abstract mosaic instead of a real city.

 Down one long staircase at the edge of the city, you find the Ras el-Maa river trickling down the stone steps into the valley. Here the women do their laundry on huge concrete beds in the river, in some of the most beautiful surroundings you can imagine. I couldn't help but want to draw, even though I felt a little intrusive drawing people just doing their laundry. My broken French was enough to get us through most of Morocco, but here on the eastern coast, they only speak Spanish and Arabic. Not knowing a word of Spanish, I mimed my way into asking whether or not it was okay for me to draw them.

 

Initially they seemed wary, so I contented myself with just drawing the scenery and leaving the women out. The old woman of the group came over and sat next to me while I drew for a while, and smiled as I struggled to ask her questions. Eventually, I successfully gestured my question, and she consented to let me draw them. They went on with their business, laughing and singing together over the sound of the trickling stream and the soft breeze rustling through the hillsides of morning glories.

As I was drawing the teenage girl above, she seemed bashful because she was in her laundry clothes, and the old woman laughed and started asking me something in Spanish. I couldn't understand a word she was saying, or why the girl suddenly started blushing and laughing until I heard the word "matrimonio" pop out. Once I realized she was asking me, jokingly, if I was planning to marry her after such a tender drawing, I blushed and instinctively blurted out "No!". We all burst out laughing, and my cheeks turned more and more red as I frantically tried to make a more diplomatic decline of the offer (I don't think she took it personally).

The view out of our room at Casa La Palma

Our wonderful hosts, Ana and Carlos, at the beautiful bed and breakfast Casa La Palma were originally from Spain (only a couple hours away), and fell in love with Chefchaouen and moved there. With the incredible beauty, the calm, soothing air, and slow, trickling way of life, it's definitely a difficult city to leave.

Obama Inauguration 2013: Potential

"I have always believed that hope is that stubborn thing inside us that insists, despite all the evidence to the contrary, that something better awaits us so long as we have the courage to keep reaching, to keep working, to keep fighting."

 -President Barack Obama

in his acceptance of the Presidency, 2012

Last week, during a class with Dalvero Academy in Washington DC, we were fortunate enough to witness the rehearsal for President Obama's second inauguration. The capitol disappeared behind a sheet of fog as patriotic music beamed over thousands of empty chairs, waiting for an audience.

I listened from the nearby Bartholdi Garden under the branches of a pomegranate tree, thinking about the idea of potential. Inside this little fruit are dozens of seeds, bursting with potential. Each one could grow into a tree and bear it's own fruit. Today those thousands of chairs were full of people, each full of their own seeds of hope and the potential for unlimited possibilities.

With each new inauguration, there is more than just a change (or continuation) of leadership. There is the birth of thousands of new ideas and possibilities. People can hope for change whether it's now or in 4 years when another president will bring the potential for change.

So here's to 4 more years of hope, change and possibilities!

Morocco: The Tanneries

In Fes, one of the main attractions are the leather tanneries. Here, in the oldest leather tannery in the world, they produce leather using the same methods that were used nine centuries ago. After climbing the stairs, we emerged on a balcony overlooking sprawling rooftops perforated with giant vats of foul-smelling mixtures and vegetable dyes. The tour guides often give their groups sprigs of mint to hold in front of their noses to combat the smell (caused in part by large vats of acidic pigeon excrement and the raw hides themselves). Men worked in and in between the vats, scraping, cleaning, dying, and drying the mountains of animal hides.

Happy New Year!

Happy New Year! I'm a few days late, but I found this drawing and it felt like a good first post of the New Year. Pine trees are symbolic of strength in adversity, fertility, creativity, regeneration, and good luck. All good hopes for 2013!

I drew this at Kissena Park in Queens during the nice warm summer, and now that the holiday season is over, the weather is officially allowed to skip straight ahead to spring.

Morocco: Tile Workshop

While in the city of Fes, we had the wonderful opportunity to tour and draw at the Moroccan architectural decoration workshop of Arabesque (Moresque). While at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York, I noticed the brand name in the videos of the construction of the new, very beautiful Moroccan court in their Islamic Art wing. I contacted Arabesque, the creators of the court, and they welcomed us to come and draw in their workshop for a day.

The factory was in the Ville Nouvelle, the modern city outside the medieval medina. It was a sprawling three floor establishment, with the dozen or so zellij tile workers huddled together in one small dusty corner on the first floor.

 The other floors housed incredible in-progress display rooms that were created using modern designs and techniques as well as replicating each individual period of Islamic decoration with perfect attention to detail. The colors, glazes, patterns, and shapes were created using the original period-specific methods. The detail, precision, and beauty were incredible to see. All of the carved plaster, stained glass, intricately painted wood, and zellij tile were all created by the master craftsmen there.

 

 

I spent most of my day watching the workers on the first floor, listening to the repetitive tinkling of the chisels on tile. The incredible amount of work involved in creating just one tiny tile is awe-inspiring when you consider the scope of an entire wall. Each shape must be traced out onto the tile in a white paste, and then every extra piece chiseled away to perfection. The glazed ceramic tiles are held against a cinder-block and tapped precisely and delicately with a surprisingly hefty chisel until it has been chipped into the specific shape to fit into the overall design.

 

Each man had a specific task. One would draw the design onto a tile; some would chisel the raw tiles into large squares;

 

 some chiseled the squares into smaller pieces; 

 

 some chiseled them into even more intricate pieces;

  

some stopped to sharpen their chisels;

 

 

some stenciled designs on tiles and chiseled away scrolling pieces of a larger pattern;

and all together they worked like pieces of a machine to create beautiful, mind-boggling work.

  

It was a wonderful experience to be able to spend the day there, and to see the whole process. Many thanks to Adil M. Naji, the President and CEO of Moresque/Arabesque, for agreeing to have us come and for his wonderful hospitality, and to all of the craftsmen for their warmth, kindness and willingness to let me impose on their work.

Morocco: Jemaa el-Fna and the Halqa

 

 As we headed back to Marrakech, there was one more thing I wanted to find. I had read books about the storytellers of Marrakech, and how this thousand year old tradition was not too slowly fading away. These men turn storytelling into a public art, with a catalog of hundreds of tales to choose from, stored away in their minds, each one shifting and growing depending on their audience. In 2006 it is said that there were less than a dozen storytellers left in Marrakech, and they often getting older with no apprentices. In Marrakech, their stage is The Big Square, Jemaa el-Fna. Here western tourists and Moroccan tourists alike come to see this flurry of energy full of hissing cobras and snake charmers, horse-drawn carriages, apes on chain leashes, water-sellers in flamboyant costumes, and pushy throngs of women doing henna tattoos.

 

At night, the square transforms. As the sun sets behind the Koutoubia minaret, the center of the square unfolds into a series of temporary restaurants with loud auctioneers competing for the attention of the hoards of tourists and locals that flock there at night. Where snake charmers sat before, musicians and performers take their place, and I was hoping, maybe a storyteller.

Smoke from the open flames of the grills fills the air.

We searched all over the square for several nights, behind every orange juice stand and date seller, and on every hidden corner we could find, but we couldn't find a single storyteller. Perhaps we weren't looking for the right things to find them, or perhaps they weren't there that night. What we did find, though, was the lifeblood of the storyteller, the halqa. A halqa is the circle of people that forms around the storyteller (or halaiqi) and other performers.

 

After standing on the edge of a circle of people surrounding some musicians and drawing, they eventually pulled us into the center. Although I couldn't understand the stories he was telling, or the words to the music, I began to feel a part of the halqa. They laughed at my portraits of them, and gave Chris and I some Berber whiskey (mint tea).

We may not have been able to find one of the storytellers, but the feeling of the halqa is one I won't forget. It's a spontaneous connection with people, and you can feel the energy of it and how it feeds both the performers and the audience.