Category: Leonard Greco Art

The single most influential person in my life died today.
Tomorrow is my 55th birthday .
Thirty years ago , on my 25th birthday , this marvelous women came to my home overflowing with gifts as was her want . Fabulous, thoughtful, unconventional gifts . In this case , to celebrate my twenty fifth year , it was with tomatoes , masses of gloriously ripe orbs . All nestled in a 19th century Russian baking pan , golden copper a gleaming foil to their lustrous beauty . Nestled within the tomatoes was a knife . A strange knife , serrated and fancy looking . She explained to me that it was a tomato knife . I had never heard of such a thing but I was delighted .
I felt very rich that evening in the rather shabby ( yet charming ) rowhouse that I shared with her son Douglas in Trenton. Douglas was my great love and this woman was my hero . My love for both often felt entangled.
The tomatoes were of course devoured , the pan became part of the settlement Douglas and I decided upon when after nine years of loving one another , we no longer found ourselves able to continue . The pan was a family heirloom but I kept the knife . I use this knife nearly every day , it hasn’t changed just as my feelings for the giver haven’t faltered.
Everything she seemed to do , she did seemingly effortlessly with grace , taste and affection . It’s easy to have good taste , to put others at ease is such a rare gift .
And that is what she did , she listened , she laughed , she made what you said ( no matter how inane ) seem worthy of attention .
My background was Shitsville , my self esteem nonexistent and yet this patrician woman thought I had something worthwhile to say . She encouraged my art making by introducing me to a gallerist in Blue Hill Maine where the family summered . We would scour the junkyards in search of castaways to paint , refurbish and market . If she , with her discerning taste thought my work worthy , than perhaps it was .  
Her taste drew me in from the beginning . How she set a table , unpretentious yet elegant and inviting . How she decorated her many homes , she and her husband Bob collected homes like some folks collect stamps . Her art collection was impressive but she never boasted of its value as so many collectors do. For her it was the art ! Not the value of the art .
 She was an early patron of George Nakashima, Douglas’ boyhood home , a palatial pile was chockablock with raw edged wood. American craft , contemporary and traditional was her passion early on . And as she developed into middle age she acquired a masters in fine art , focusing upon the three dimensional , creating work that surprised and delighted me .
Many memories will be resurfacing in the next few days and weeks : how she introduced me to the beauty of the color orange ( her favorite color), of the poetry of rust , of Maine , of how to cook an incredible meal out of whatever was lingering in the cupboard , how to pile on jewelry and pull it off , how to ignore the clay under ones nails or the paint upon ones shirt and still be the most scintillating person at any party. How to engage with warmth and openness and stay true to yourself.
Her name was Sherell Jacobson .
Sleep well Shez. 

I just finished up with an all day, rather grueling artist workshop , the topic at hand being business practices.

Ugh.

 Much I was familiar with, at least superficially, but when role playing was introduced, ( again, ugh) new revelations were revealed .

I’m insufferably shy , I feel ill from exposing myself and of course , who do they call upon first . I was mortified , but I suppose fighting one’s demons is half the task . It’s almost impossible for me to discuss my own work , always trying to deflect scrutiny of the work and by extension , myself .

I still feel mortified . But I tried to persevere through the discomfort.

Part of the workshop was, once divided into small groups, we were to view and describe one another’s work to our group mates . Me being me made positive , probably lame , certainly vague comments  ; truthful but never wanting to hurt feelings . In hindsight I see that as unhelpful.

The observations made concerning my own work were revelations- at least to me .

My  work was described as :

Macabre 

Disturbing 

Religious associations 

Strangely biblically tinged 

Weird

Depicting decay 

Realistically rendered 

Strong 

Chaotic 

More familiarily , it was described as :

Surrealistic 

Colorful 

Brueghel-esque 

Devils 

Narrative 

Fantasy 

On one hand I’m concerned that my work can be perceived as disturbing but on the other I AM trying to create emotionally evocative work . In the end , I left feeling fascinated by perception , the very concept of perception, how I perceive my work not always translating , or if it does , in a darker stranger way than I had planned . This is something , that in so many ways,  cannot be controlled without deliberately designing an image to evoke a specific response .

But that’s perhaps best left to marketing .

It is all so personal ,the work  I make ; it might seem idiosyncratic, perplexing , off putting to some ( many?) . I have only just begun to acknowledge that fact in my bubble of splendid isolation.

I’m not going to make any significant changes after these revelations, in fact I feel committed , dare I say  confident in the direction I’ve set for myself. Whereas previous critique left me in a puddle , I found this experience a helpful , and strangely ,an affirmation . 

One of the facilitators tried to coax me into being more natural while  role playing . The truth being I WAS  being the natural me, the terrified , the insecure me , the one who makes stuff that may seem inscrutable ( even disturbing ) at times . My job now is to continue exploring my beingness, staying focused upon my truth and when possible try to explain it more efffectively . 

And keep business cards at hand.

Now I’m going for a run.

I’ve spent the weekend manning  a wall at a local art walk . A first for me . I generally do not attend art fairs , usually attending museum and gallery exhibitions. 

The decision is a pragmatic one , with so many openings , it is really just a matter of time management. So I’m unfamiliar with art fair culture , its norms and practices .

 As the art walk winds down I’ve come to the conclusion that many art fair attendees come for the booze , folks enjoy drinking beer whilst perusing the open studios . Perhaps the only thing they enjoy more than warm brew is snapping at images of artwork and hastily retreating to the next experience.

This isn’t an unfamiliar sight , particularly at museums; I’m afraid to say I’ve done it myself . But when it is your own work , you ache to inquire their motives for snapping away , seemingly in a random superficial way . It seems a peculiar form of ownership , ownership of experiencing a work without commitment.

 I understand that , like I said I snap away with great abandon . Often accruing too many images with little to no  engagement , frequently it’s an impoverished experience.

That said , my “Adam” has been quite the hit . An ideal selfie prop for giggling young women and buff young fellows . It’s odd for me to see my work as a naughty joke , but “Adam” was created in a playful spirit , for him to be recieved that way , seems appropriate. Plus , he doesn’t seem to mind . 

Now I need to take it all down .

Good night , I’m pooped .

I just needed to draw today. I have several projects going on , some concepts I need to move forward with for upcoming shows but that all said , just wanted to draw , for drawings sake .

 So I did, not the most disciplined of actions perhaps …

I ignored a big looming unfinished painting which is at that stage of “will I ever finish ??”; ignored other works half begun ; ignored projects germinating . 

I drew.

 And this drawing , my interpretation of that moment on the road to Damascus is the result. Not the greatest of accomplishments perhaps but I feel more at ease. 

It was wonderful to have new thoughts and to just let the pencil move where it wanted to . Mentally , drawing is so clarifying. Particularly welcome as my studio is a happy jumble at the moment. Actually it’s always a jumble , which is how I like it.

Tomorrow I will begin anew on “Goblin Market “. But for the moment calling it a night , pleased I listened to that inner voice . 

Given that today is the Lunar New Year ( Year of the Rooster) and after this week of blustering male bravado coming out of the White House , I decided a bit of feminine rebirth was in order.

My relief print from 2015 , a limited edition of six , is available at a reduced price of $75.00 including domestic shipping . There are four left , if interested please contact me at neobaroque@mac.com

My Wunderkammer

My life, my art, my burning passions, all will, at some time be dust. This eternal truth faces us all and the shadow I leave behind may very well be a creaky antique cupboard crammed to bursting with a treasure trove of misfit bric-a-brac, ephemera and bibelots. Treasures (and trash) gleaned since boyhood, initially stuffed into pockets and cigar boxes, then into aching drawers, now find a home in the fanciful fretwork of a fusty Chinese Export armoire. The musty, the dusty, the cracked and the flawed, the unwanted and the unloved, all are welcome and treasured in this little kingdom .

As a boy I was enamored with Hans Christian Andersen’s The Shepherdess and the (Chimney) Sweep. Anderson fashioned an imaginary world within a fancifully carved cupboard, perhaps not unlike my own (although from the description of rutting satyrs it sounds decidedly Renaissance), his world is one in which bobble-headed Chinamen ( when one could still use such words) were once lovers with pot-pourri pots and now broken hearted he fancies the pretty little porcelain Shepherdess who fear the dark of his lair as Persephone feared Hades’. This world of wonder enchanted me completely and has never left; I have spent my life trying to recreate this magic, a world in which the seemingly inanimate and the trivial have a story and a soul. This desire is expressed within my work where the silent speak and the forgotten are honored. It is also expressed in concrete way, for the theater of Anderson’s folk tale is found within a Wunderkammer of my very own, perhaps my greatest joy.

This is a personal reliquary, where marionettes unstrung and bobble- headed Maya gods keep company with gnarled chicken feet and azurite Egyptian deities, where soldiers of lead still emit the foul stench of death and plaster Virgens are eager to heal (even if they too are as broken as we sinners). This worthless collection will be my legacy and when I am dust and no longer able to defend my misfits, what will be their fate ? Will they like Anderson’s young lovers crash and fall? Will my joys be left curbside ? Once again unloved, unattended to, fluttering to an indifferent wind, in a world enamored with all that is digital but not at all moved by the aching  tangible .

Or will they like the Shepherdess and her blackened Sweep be riveted together, treasured and facing a strange yet hopeful eternity. My desire  is some book-besotted boy or girl, quiet and inward, will catch the sparkle of some bit of fin de siecle frippery and surreptitiously pluck a few treasures into an open pocket, thus continuing the story, my story, their story, our story.

To read Anderson’s story follow this link:

http://hca.gilead.org.il/shepherd.html

Once again thanking DiversionsLA for a flattering review.

photo credit to Jack Burke, Diversions LA

Link below:

http://diversionsla.com/?p=4331

Tomorrow is Father’s Day , and if Mother’s Day causes me to feel ambivalent and mournful , Fathers Day enrages me.
My father was a petty and wantonly cruel man , frustrated with his situation he expressed his rage in violent outbursts directed at his terrified brood. My mother perversely would boast her husband didn’t beat women but boy he knew how to beat children.

His punishments were decidedly corporeal , unpredictable and communal , in so much if one of my six siblings aroused his displeasure , we were all summoned to drop our drawers , and await the blows from a studded belt purchased specifically for his “justice”. From teen to toddler we took it , silently , I believe silently out of pride . My mother , deep in her own madness , stood silent as well, a mute specter .

Surprisingly , my being the eldest, I somehow escaped the brunt of his wrath. My father like many macho Latin men could smell a faggot a mile away and he instinctively recoiled from my presence . He beat the shit out of me , particularly if I betrayed a fey gesture , but his concentrated brutality was upon my far younger and far sweeter siblings .

One such incident was deeply profound and it severed figuratively and literally my relationship with my father. My baby sister Kat, left to my care after my mother’s illness left her unable to attend to her needs , was participles adorable and particularly precocious . I adored her sparkle .

My father found it aggravating .

 She was just a toddler , acting out , impotently I tried to hush her , frustrated , my father rushed from the kitchen table and just slammed her full force into the wall . Her little head hitting the unforgiving surface with a heartbreaking  sound . Without thinking I rushed to the utility drawer and pulled a pitiful and most likely , dull , paring knife. I went after my father , and in romantic reflection I want to believe I stabbed him, but what I do know is , in a bit of Fruedian genius my father pulled out his far larger hunting knife , effectively ending the fight . My mother , the ever present yet silent ghost , witnessed my mortified retreat .

Hence today’s painting from 2015,”The Castration of Uranus”. According to classical tradition , the Earth Mother Gaia provides her son, the Titan Cronus with a “great stone sickle” with which he castrates his brutish , sibling devouring father. Alas my mother provided me with no sickle and I lacked the ability to smite my father.

Soon after I was on my own, I haven’t spoken to the hateful man in well over thirty years . I’ve heard, like old Nazis , he has mellowed , but I harbor memories of his unjust power . 

Often, like my depiction of Uranus,  my father held court , in his briefs , legs apart, for like many of his Italian American friends he was unabashedly proud of his endowment . That he chose to flaunt his “family jewels” ( as he called them ) in front of his children befuddles me to this day. But I was taken aback when revisiting this painting that I had expertly captured that haughty pose , granted now deflated .

So if I hadn’t the power to vanquish my father with a paring knife , I have the power with my brush . My father’s greatest gift to me is empathy , I cannot bear brutish cruelty towards those unable to defend  themselves.  My passion for the rights of animals stems from past lived experience . For that I’m grateful .

Happy Father’s Day ( seriously ).