Entry - 4.10.21

 

I

I looked out the passenger window barely conscious of the shabby businesses and rundown houses that bordered the service road of Sunrise Highway, a conduit that had been an inescapable and abiding feature of my environment since my earliest childhood. Our family home was situated a few blocks from the highway, only a sprawling shopping plaza providing a critical buffer between this active thoroughfare and our residential enclave. Having experienced a number of transformations during my youth, this once sluggish byway punctuated with countless stoplights had evolved into a multi-laned superhighway sandwiched between two service roads. Now, whenever out in our yard, day or night, I experienced the rumbles, roars and squeals of cars and trucks racing by our neighborhood, a background din so persistent that regular exposure had deafened my ears to its presence.

I don't think my circumstances would be that different from most other kids growing up on Long Island in the 1960's. With the end of World War II, an insatiable demand for housing had spurred a development boom that eventually consumed every last scrap of available land however rugged, marshy or sloping. During this frenzy of development, historic Long Island was eradicated and the natural landscape subdued. A network of roads was established to serve the exploding population, and with every passing year traffic congestion grew worse and worse. Small errands within just a few miles of home would take forever. And while counties and municipalities rushed to address the needs of communities that seemed to pop up overnight, only the most essential services were provided. There were few cultural institutions. Public transportation was unreliable and inadequate. For real employment opportunity, New York City was your only reasonable destination. Long Island had been turned into an extended bedroom community provisioned by numerous shopping centers and malls and served by an enormous network of school districts. My mantra in those days was: suburbia is a place with all the problems of a city and none of its amenities.

But I wasn't thinking about the deficiencies of Long Island that day. I was embarking on an endeavor that would take me to New York City for an extended stay, and I was occupied with my private thoughts, still plotting out the details of how I would proceed with my project. As my father exited onto Deer Park Avenue, my mind turned to logistics – how I would navigate the trains and subways with my unwieldy gear and what objectives I needed to accomplish each day once I had reached my destination. Though my plans were a bit involved, I was excited at the prospect of getting out of the family home and immersing myself in work.

About a year earlier, while living in Brooklyn during my grad school studies, an untenable situation had developed with my apartment-mate which necessitated an urgent call to my parents seeking their permission to return home for an extended stay. They did not hesitate to give their okay. Even though my relationship with my parents was quite good, I was still deeply appreciative of their ready willingness to take me in again after my fairly brief foray into “independence”. As an expression of gratitude, I began tackling many of the niggling chores that had been left neglected of late around the ol' homestead. I spent weeks out in the yard mowing, weeding, raking, edging and trimming. I particularly recall inching along the street-side curb on my butt in the summer heat, pulling out the stubborn weeds that had penetrated through the asphalt and always refused to surrender easily to their fate. How many times as a young boy, head bowed between knobby knees splayed out from the legs of my ridiculously short shorts, had I performed this very same duty? After all my struggles to obtain an education, I couldn't help but feel a little amused at my situation... and disconcerted too.

Meeting my college expenses and getting established in an apartment had badly depleted my meager savings, so I had made an effort, somewhat ineffectually, to obtain local employment. Throughout my grad school years, I had served as a consultant at a state agency, had tutored children in NYC's Chinatown and had worked as a clerk at a 7-Eleven, never earning a substantial salary but always securing just enough cash to get by. A financial award from my college and a school loan had been instrumental in keeping me afloat as I had finished up my studies. Now that I was out of grad school, a quickly dwindling reserve of savings was all I had to meet my expenses. But all the same, I never felt constricted and, oddly enough, always seemed to have sufficient funds to meet my immediate needs.

As we proceeded along Deer Park Avenue, a two lane thoroughfare that, passing through some residential areas lined with shade trees, had retained some semblance of charm, we didn't talk much. My father was a quiet and gentle soul seldom asserting his presence forcefully on his children's lives. His impact was in deeds and not words. He was the epitome of dependability, always available to assist us, without complaint, in our youthful ventures and high jinks. His parenting style was definitely “hands off”, but, if you needed him, he would be out the door and on his way in a matter of minutes, day or night. The silence we shared wasn't awkward. One of the greatest comforts of familial relations is that the need to entertain or impress is nonexistent; too many years of daily essential contact had transpired for such trivial concerns to matter.

My father pulled into the railroad station parking lot, and I directed him to move out of the regular flow of traffic passing by the terminal to drop off travelers. I would need time to unload and organize my supplies. Once the car came to a stop in an inactive sector of the lot, I started to open my door when my father extended his hand to me. He was holding a wad of bills.

“Listen,” he said, “I appreciate the work you've been doing at the house, and I'm sure you might need a little money.”

I was very moved. Though we had never wanted for necessities at our home, I knew that money was always tight, leaving virtually no room for frivolous extravagances. This contribution certainly meant a real sacrifice for him.

“No, Dad. Really. I'm doing okay,” I replied, conveying as much confidence as I could muster. “I've put some money aside. But I'll definitely let you know if I get desperate.”

I got out of the car and retrieved from the backseat a large, handled shopping bag and a backpack crammed with clothing and supplies. After slipping on the backpack, I fed through the open passenger's window an extremely long and bulky item that resembled a sail-wrapped spar. I crouched down into the car to say goodbye to my father and thank him for the ride, and he sort of smiled at me. “Hey. I know you're going to make it. You work so hard at it.”

I grinned. “I'm not so sure about that. But thanks.”

While I heaved my “spar” upon my shoulder and headed for the station, I felt a bit flummoxed. As I have stated earlier, my father was a man of few words. I believe that up till then I could count on one hand the number of conversations we shared that could have been categorized in the contemporary lingo as “heavy”, and here he was prognosticating optimistically about my future prospects... just as I was rushing to catch a train with my arms loaded with a ton of shit. I was far from certain about what he meant by “making it”. I wasn't even sure if I had any firm idea of what I was trying to accomplish, what achievement would leave me satisfied and if I even held faith in such an elusive concept as “success”. But one thing was clear to me: having witnessed my years of persistent effort, my father empathized with me and was becoming concerned about my welfare. I was grateful.

I entered the station, bought a ticket, then climbed the concrete steps to wait on the platform. When the train arrived, I clumsily boarded and squeezed through the heavy metal doors that opened onto the passenger compartment. Making my way down the aisle, being very careful not to inadvertently whack anyone in the head, I scanned the overhead racks to find a span long enough to accommodate my “spar”, which when standing on its end was nearly as tall as myself. I was peripherally aware of disconcerted and irritable stares following my activities as I hoisted my load onto the rack and took a seat. As the train accelerated out of the station, I pulled a book out of my bag, then slouched down in my seat, feeling relieved to have completed this first leg of my journey.

Gerard Wickham, Portrait of My Father, 1981

II

I had known John Matthews ever since my younger brother Tim had enrolled in his mother's cub scout pack. At a nearby schoolyard Tim and I would often run into John and his grandfather, a stocky, elderly man with a thick Irish brogue. Tim and I would be walking Sam, our Terrier Spaniel Mix, while they were giving Pepper, a purebred German Shepherd, an outing. Eventually, John started joining our band of neighborhood kids who socialized and played sports together – in particular participating in our daily half-field, self pitch baseball games throughout the summer months. John didn't have an easy time penetrating this tight-knit company of youths who for the most part shared a history that had commenced in babyhood. Being an outsider, he suffered a lot of ridicule and derision, but he never let it dampen his spirits, continually reappearing on our doorsteps ready to endure whatever new abuse would be meted out that day. I couldn't help but admire him for this.

Gerard Wickham, Portrait of John Matthews, 1980

With time, John successfully integrated into our band and, having weathered a storm of persecution for years, had developed into an independent, confident freethinker who pursued his interests and goals unfazed by the approbation or criticism of others. On his own, he competed with the swim team for years, cultivated a taste for serious literature and developed into a capable musician, traveling into the city to jam with Old-Timey performers while still in High School. Later on, after dropping out of NYU, he traveled widely throughout the United States, alone and with just a few bucks in his pocket.

Gerard Wickham, Portrait of John Matthews, 1980

After my journey on the Long Island Railroad and the NYC subway system, I arrived at the apartment John was subletting from a friend, a hairdresser who used the location both as his living quarters and for his business needs. The place was a modern and attractive, ground-level studio situated (if I recall correctly) in the eighties a couple of blocks off of Manhattan's Museum Mile. The walls and furniture were austerely white, a sign of the most contemporary taste at that time, and the floor was fashioned from highly polished, blonde wood. Because his friend actually worked on his affluent clientele in the unit, he had installed a quality sound system complete with a set of bathroom speakers to entertain his guests during hair washings and cuts. It seemed to be the perfect location to execute my task.

Gerard Wickham, Portrait of John Matthews, 1981

As planned, I set to work almost immediately, extricating my stretcher strips from their canvas cocoon and constructing a perfectly squared frame on which to spread my already measured and precut rectangle of canvas. I needed to get the first coat of gesso on my canvas before dinner, so it would be dry and ready for a second coat upon our return. At that time, I commonly added sand to my gesso to enhance its texture, and I retrieved a coffee can filled with Fire Island beach sand from my bag. After a few hours work, we headed out the door to enjoy a meal at one of the many local establishments, and later I applied my second coat of gesso to the canvas before going to sleep on the sofa.

Each ensuing day followed a predictable pattern. After a quick breakfast, John would leave for his job at a nearby lighting store while I prepared for a day of painting. Having selected the music that would accompany my efforts that day, I would set up my palette, mix up my thinning medium and then paint throughout the day. When John returned in the evening, I would finish up my work, clean my brushes and dispose of my palette before going out for dinner at a nearby affordable restaurant, selected by John whose weeks of living in the area had provided with an invaluable expertise. Then we'd head out for a night of drinking prior to returning to the apartment and starting the cycle once more. It was a rigorous routine, no doubt, but also one that sparked intense creativity and provided a sense of profound intellectual satisfaction.

Gerard Wickham, Portrait of John Matthews, 1983

As with most of my more ambitious works, the idea for this painting had germinated quite a while ago and had been kicking about my brain for some time. John, being a serious musician, had often introduced me to a lot of great new music. There was a piece that he played for me repeatedly which featured a narrator who in a booming, pompous voice shares his observations concerning the ladies of Paris. His pronouncements are all shallow and clichéd and, in my opinion, were intended to expose an underlying chauvinistic bias in the male perspective. My not-so-perfect memory suggests that the piece was written by Philip Glass, a composer about whom John was particularly enthusiastic at that time, but of that I'm far from certain. (Can anyone help me out here?) Anyway, I began to entertain thoughts of painting my own image of the ladies of Paris within which I would defy the offensive, hackneyed platitudes, exhibiting both a sexist and cultural bigotry, that were commonly promulgated in the media. My intention was to present a ring of four nude women who, rather than express the uniformity and anonymity of the stereotype, would, in pose and gesture, represent very specific attributes. Furthermore, opposing figures in my ring would exhibit traits that negated those of her corresponding partner. In a very abbreviated and immediate fashion, I hoped to lure the viewer into anticipating the satisfying affirmation of a familiar and comfortable perception only to discover that the image refused to permit that. But I want to make clear that my intentions were not pedantic. I had no interest in educating or enlightening my audience. My motive in creating this work was in presenting an image that embodied coinciding perspectives which seemingly negated each other.

To achieve this delicate balance between perspectives, I relied on technical and aesthetic devices that essentially cloaked specificity within a complex layering of surfaces and a linear network of gestural brushwork. I used no source material in this work, relying wholly on my imagination in its creation. There was no need for preliminary sketches, since the evolution of my conception contributed to its aesthetic character. The adjustments I made, the repositioning of figures and the distortions I imposed upon them, enhanced the visual allure of the painting while promoting the ambiguity I desired. I began by roughly laying out my composition on the canvas in super-thinned oils, then blocking in general areas of tone in thicker paints. I regularly reevaluated my efforts, sometimes deciding to scrape off wet layers of paint and at other times choosing to wipe off or smear it to permit the subsequent reworking of an area. In applying paint, I used a variety of brushes ranging in size from very fine to extremely broad, and I often worked with a palette knife. In wax-coated paper cups, I mixed up solutions of thinned paints which I applied to the canvas in rapid strokes, commonly working mechanically, relying on intuition to guide my hand. As the painting gelled, I became more comfortable using impasto, knowing that the basic structure of the work was established and would not change too dramatically later on. I painted my figures in tones of garish pinks and peaches, suggesting the lurid imagery of pornography which I presented incongruously within a high art setting. At one point, I indicated summarily a generic city skyline but, finding the reference too concrete and dissimilar to the rest of the painting, subsequently eradicated it almost entirely. When I sensed the work was nearing completion, I “redrew” the composition in dilute solutions of pure black and white applied in broad, gestural strokes. This process provided the image, up until then a loose arrangement of planes of color infiltrated by lines, with an overweening structure that more aptly suggested form while emphasizing anchors and thrusts within its composition.

As is my usual practice, I allowed for a final day of labor once the painting was ostensibly realized. I spent hours examining the work, scrutinizing it up close, then distancing myself from it or selecting different angles from which to view it. I addressed details that disturbed me, tonalities that needed adjustment and compositional irregularities. On this day, most of my effort was devoted to seeing rather than painting. When John returned from work that day, I happily informed him that the painting was complete.

Gerard Wickham, Portrait of John Matthews, 1983

I should add that throughout my stay John had been regularly discussing with me his intention to install full-spectrum lighting above the painting. He explained that most artificial light sources only provide light from a small segment of the spectrum, while full-spectrum lighting, as it name suggests, covers the entire spectrum, making it much more akin to natural light. Within his responsibilities at the lighting and décor shop, he had been installing these lighting systems in the homes of many wealthy Manhattanites and had seen firsthand the impact they achieved, particularly on artwork. He would be able to obtain all of the components from his shop for next to nothing by purchasing open-boxed items gleaned from returns or upgrades. I was skeptical and didn't encourage him. To my way of thinking, a painting is an independent object and, as such, must function within whatever lighting is available, whether natural, incandescent or fluorescent. Undaunted by my lack of enthusiasm, John began preparing for the installation, returning from his job each day with some new item. Eventually, in the evenings when I wasn't painting, he was up on a ladder, drilling, hooking up wires and positioning power tracks.

On the last evening of my stay, with his installation complete and the painting finished, wired and hung, still quite wet, upon the wall, John turned on the new lights and we stepped back to view The Ladies of Paris. I was amazed at how big a difference the full-spectrum lighting made. The painting really sang. I believe I can fairly state that we were both pretty satisfied. I had added a successful major work to my oeuvre, and John wouldn't have to share his living space with an abomination. We went out one last time to enjoy a celebratory dinner and down a few drinks. In the morning, I packed up my things, took one last look at the painting and headed out for home. The entire process had taken about a week, more or less.

Gerard Wickham, The Ladies of Paris, 1985

III

During the following months, John informed me that he often observed individuals outside his apartment stopping to examine The Ladies of Paris, which was hung beside huge windows that opened onto the sidewalk at street level. On one occasion, he responded to a tapping on the glass to find a group of young women gathered at the window who wanted to get a better look at the work and learn a little more about it. I must admit that my interest in executing this painting in situ was both practical and promotional. I wanted the work to be very large. It is, in fact, the largest single-paneled painting that I have ever created. I knew that, once the canvas was stretched and the painting executed, conveying it on public transportation would become an impossibility. But I was also motivated by a longing for exposure, specifically at a location that would experience a lot of street traffic from a potentially sophisticated, art-wise public. So I was very gratified to learn that the painting was inspiring interest.

Unfortunately, within a relatively short time, John informed me that his sublet was over and he had to move out of the apartment. But he would still be living in the general area. So, on a quiet evening, he and I carried The Ladies of Paris along the sidewalks of Manhattan, squeezing through crowds and rushing across streets to avoid traffic. If I had to move the painting today, I would carefully wrap it in several layers of thick plastic tarp and secure it with tape and rope, but I didn't think like that then. I was used to transporting paintings, often still wet, on buses and subways in all kinds of weather and never thought to cover them. My existence was a little more helter-skelter; there simply wasn't the time or the money to be dainty. Consequently, without any protection whatsoever, we lugged the painting through the city, with me painfully aware of the fact that just one strong gust of wind could be disastrous for such a large work, possibly misaligning or snapping the stretcher strips and distending the canvas beyond repair. I definitely had some misgivings but plunged ahead anyway. Naturally, it being New York City, pedestrians stopped us on the sidewalk, asked to see the painting and provided impromptu reviews on the street corners. Somehow, we pulled off the operation without a hitch.

Following a second move through the streets of Manhattan, I realized that The Ladies of Paris had to find a more permanent and secure birth. Therefore, much to John's chagrin, after one of my own moves within Brooklyn, we drove the U-Haul truck into Manhattan, fetched the painting and then stored it, resting on wooden supports and covered by a drop cloth, in my parents' basement – a sort of somber turn of events for a work whose origins were so social and public.

Afterword

I only painted my father once, though I drew him on multiple occasions. While posing for the portrait included here, he predictably fell asleep, his chin dropping to his chest leaving only the crown of his head visible to me. I used whatever information I had already gotten on the canvas and a lot of imagination to complete the portrait, while he enjoyed a profound slumber. A detail I noticed while examining the image in preparation of this blog entry is the reflection in my father's glasses of the long bars of fluorescent lighting secured to our kitchen ceiling which nearly obscures his eyes completely. Another observation is that he is pictured wearing the lightweight gray sweater that he favored above all others during the last decade of his life.

At the time of our drive to the Babylon train station which I recount at the beginning of this entry, I hadn't an inkling that my father would die in about a year and a half from complications arising from what should have been minor surgery. Our abbreviated conversation that day remains a powerful memory that has come to define my father for me.

On the other hand, I painted and drew John too many times to count. He was an ever-present fixture at my parents' home for many years, always amenable to pose whenever requested. He would often bring along his guitar, and I would sketch him while he performed his regular repertoire of traditional folk music and Simon & Garfunkel songs. Later, when we were both living on our own, John would stop by my apartment now and then and accommodate me by posing for a few hours, which was critically helpful in my first year of grad school during which I was still painting expressionist portraits.

In the years following my execution of The Ladies of Paris, John and I experienced a gradual deterioration in our friendship often resulting in misunderstandings, minor collisions and inane confrontations. Inevitably, a final falling out occurred resulting in the severance of all communication between us. That happened over thirty years ago. Now and and then, mutual acquaintances will mention John and provide a few murky morsels concerning his activities. Hilariously, I believe he ended up living in Paris.

In spite of my father's rosy prediction concerning my art career, I think I can reasonably state that professional success has eluded me. While pursuing my studies, I always believed that hard work and persistence would ultimately yield great fruit, and the positive reaction of my instructors to my work apparently endorsed that perspective. But I also realized once my schooling was over that many other factors, some within my own personality and some determined by random circumstance, would impact more significantly on my prospects than the quality of my work. After some years of futile promotional endeavor, I chose to accept a secure position at a government agency and remained there until my recent retirement. During that time, I continued to work diligently on my artwork, and perhaps my output over that period might demonstrate to some small degree how industry in isolation can result in a different kind of achievement. I guess, if that's what he had in mind that day in the LIRR parking lot, my father was clairvoyant.

In my estimation, The Ladies of Paris remains one of the most concise, effective and satisfying articulations of a technical and intellectual approach to painting that I initiated in the early 80's and explored for nearly a decade. Though today my artwork looks very different, I still view this painting with both great pride and pleasure. Having survived those early hazardous moves, the painting has since experienced better treatment: being transported properly and protected from moisture, extreme temperatures and accidental damage in storage. For nearly the last thirty years, this painting has sat in my current home's upstairs studio. As of this writing, The Ladies of Paris has never been exhibited publicly.

As always, I encourage readers to comment here. If you would prefer to comment privately, you can email me at gerardwickham@gmail.com.