Category: Leonard Greco Art

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 ).

This little drawing , part of my daily drawing practice , a mere 6″, caused me a great deal of self doubt and personal loathing yesterday . For no matter how I tried , erasing , tweaking, scrutinizing every pencil stroke, I could just not get it right . The eyes were off , the ears imbalanced; I’d post it on Instagram only to delete moments later mortified that I had revealed my all too apparent inadequacies.
My last crit ( gosh I have skin as thin as Mr Trump it seems ) the facilitator questioned if I really understood the principles of anatomy or of perspective . And since then I have feverishly worked towards remedying that  deficiency . If I am honest, not to solely improve the work but to avoid the humiliation of exposing my flaws . That  criticism  exposed all I hate about my work and by extension myself.

I don’t have as firm a grasp on perspective or anatomy as I might wish . Being self taught had its benefits but it has its negatives as well. I see other artists render the form with incredible grace and apparent ease. Yet I struggle and  I will continue to do so. I plan on taking a course in perspective this autumn , for although I grasp the principles I haven’t the foundation that others possess. And I of course love drawing the body … Even if I suck at it .

But in the end , anatomy or perspective , qualities of light  and dark, they aren’t what makes or breaks my work . They can enhance my intentions when I place brush to canvas but it is the spirit of my work ( of all work that I admire ) that makes my work satisfying .

Yesterday’s narcissistic masochism quashed that spirit . I want to be in a place where I can present lame sad -assed drawings and not feel completely debased .

It’s part of the process I suppose , one pencil strike at a time .

Now to work.

  My last critique ( which will indeed be the last ) has left me reeling . And although the criticism lobbed against the work has in an unexpected way provided inspiration. My work was compared to both wallpaper and paper dolls , two directions I find fascinating- even if that was not the intent . I think exploring the frankly gendered even homophobic accusation that my figures look like paper dolls is exciting . I mean what grown man plays with paper dolls? Me I suppose. But inspiration aside I’ve been feeling hobbled in the studio , fussing but not producing .

The group leader who possesses empathy without pandering , something I admire, confessed that after critiques in her own past she was unable to work in her studio for several weeks.

I simply do not have that time .

 So although I feel dispirited I am facing the studio . Primarily focusing upon drawing , something that feels nurturing and familiar . And without conscious intent I turn to the Baptist John. 

  Drawing away , happy with the quiet I suddenly become hyper self critical – the legs , they are so wrong .My inner voice jumps into overdrive “you really do not possess anatomical understanding , just as the group had asserted !”

It’s a horrible feeling when your harsh inner critical voice is echoed by an external one .

I was about ready to toss the whole damned drawing ( the medium , colored pencil , wasn’t erasing properly ). But instead I decided, partly in defiance to my own demons , to continue drawing .

In this case legs .

  Working from source material I am trying to understand legs and feet; specifically trying to understand the difference between feet depicted in classical sculpture and actual feet. Why the stylization of the toe next to the big toe . Was it simply more graceful ? It does give a pleasant V shape . A lot to explore , plus it silences the nasty demons .

Concerns such as this will occupy my brain, I will try to reject “rightness” over expression and I will continue to try to process the criticisms , perhaps even benefiting from them.

Today I have my life drawing class ,sadly  soon to end and now I am scrambling to find other venues to continue this integral part of my practice .

Until next time, be well.