Portraits That Tell A Story…

Solo figures expressed on canvas.  Singularness. As a solitary person this strikes a particular inspirational chord for me…

David Hockney’s portraits of individuals were simply defined yet powerfully portrayed. Elaine de Kooning’s contemporary portrait of John F.  Kennedy was not stayed and traditionally rendered but loose and colorful. Brushstrokes that emphasized the man, the figure on canvas and not idolatry…

Portraits that tell a story. A friend’s granddaughter perched on an upside-down beached boat. My granddaughter at my easel. My youngest granddaughter dressed in a pink leotard and tutu’s clutching her baby doll dressed similarly. A simple portrait that provides the viewer with a glimpse into a particular moment in time…

During my in-between of commissions, exhibitions and my unsatisfiable quest for what next in my art I took a deep dive into one of my grandfather’s photo album. The one I have in my possession. I went on a quest for a photo I have etched in my memory. I came up photo empty but had an adventure instead…

I was in search of a photo of him from the 50’s. Cuba just prior to the Cuban Revolution. I have imagined him to be in the company of Hemingway. The timeframe works.  He was sitting in a wooden rocker dressed impeccably yet with a cool lanky sophistication. A white crisp shirt, khaki pants and fine leather oxfords. His location. His smile. An intriguing photo that appeared casual and light, but the background was rugged and economically challenged. The current flowed serious. Possibly dangerous…

Grampa’s photo album rests on a bookcase in my studio.  A cherished decoration till this week when I flipped through the pages with a determined curiosity. Scraped and worn. Chocolate brown with a purple undertone. A leathery reptilian textured design. “PHOTOGRAPHS” stamped in black on the front cover. A brown heavy string fed through metal rivets laced through the heavy black construction paper holding precious the lives enclosed in this book of memories. The exterior tie loose and looped. Precariously holding together memories in a collective whole. Housing images of lives once lived in a time as foreign to me as the faces I studied.  Who last tied this woven string?

The black construction paper now frail. Almost powdery. Images corner mounted. The 30’s and / or 40’s.  Gently and ever so delicately, I moved from page to page stopping initially at the images of my mother as a baby and very young child. Her life seemed to start and stop somewhere about this age in her father’s life…

A black and white photo of a large and statuesque woman formally attired in a white nurse’s uniform shared the page with images of my mom as a young girl. She held my mother cradled in her arms who appeared healthy and plump. Just months old. Standing in the field near the farmhouse where my mother grew up. A wet nurse.

How had my mother traveled to Rehoboth, MA from her place of birth in Mineola NY? A question never asked or answered when I had the chance to find out the details of my mother’s tragic start. Another sepia photo showed a hospital with two nuns dressed as nurses. Was my mother initially in a Foundling Hospital? A Catholic orphanage? My mind a whirl of ideas and possibilities couldn’t rest…

A man. My grandfather during the early 30’s traveled the world for his work who was suddenly thrust into a living nightmare. The elation of his first child being born was polarized by the death of his young beautiful wife just four days later.  A transfusion post labor would end her life as she had the yet to be discovered Rh factor…

From page to page I lived his life. The images were personal to him or were they simply an interesting photo opportunity? He lived a big life it appeared.  Planes, sailboats, the military, foreign travels, foreign work. The Marines, a communications specialist always in the historical and political hot spots. A photographer. An outdoorsman.  Beaches on Long Island. Improvised neighborhoods in South America. A private Piper plane and a schooner…

Images of divers. Random images. Male and female. Tandem dives. Did he know these athletes or just happened upon them and photographed them? I have one of his cameras and just wish it could talk.

An image of a military person playing the violin or possibly the fiddle. The photograph does not distinguish. A cigarette resting on the lower lip of the violinist. Another service member in more formal dress sits above and behind the musician. Eyes closed. Head tilted back resting on a cement cylinder block with a cigarette adorning his mouth too. Listening to this presumed virtuoso play. Transported away.  Two figures firmly locked in their own private worlds yet juxtaposed by circumstance. What we do with our time while we wait…

The impact of solitary figures and the shadows they cast. The stories they express without a word shared. The position of their bodies. A facial expression portraying any array of pain or pleasure. The quiet moments of struggle or physical exhaustion gesturally explained. I can’t get enough of it…

“My responsibility isn’t to paint a flattering portrait; my responsibility is to paint a real portrait, a true portrait.”–Jhumpa Lahiri