all that we have had and all that we will lose
all that we have had and all that we will lose
2 Degrees C
2 degrees C
Wet Paint
wet paint
Keeping Score
keeping score
Paintings 2015-2017
paintings 2015-2017
Recent Waterworks (2017)
recent waterworks 2017
Basketball
basketball
Hockey
hockey
The Long Summer
long summer
Paintings 2013-2014
paintings 2013-2014
Personal Landscapes
personal landscapes
Collages
collages
The Black & White Ball
ball
Clipped
clipped
A New Year in Paint
paint
Skating on Thin Ice
skating
Golf
golf
Austria
austria
A New Decade in Paint
paint
Dancing Through Life
dancing
Figures
figures
Whiskeytown
whiskeytown
No Naked Nudes
no naked nudes
Convictions
convictions
Body Language
new york
Tribute to Rotonde
brussels
A New Century in Paint
paintings1
Freshly Dug Up: 1970's
early work
In London: Diverse RCA
london
New in Berlin
berlin
In San Francisco: Boxers
Springer-Croke
In New York: Surfers
Surfers
From Cleveland: "Drawn In"
Cleveland
"The Babies V"
Babies 5
From Berlin: "Medusa"
Medusa
 

Jan Wurm's Blog

When Red, Yellow, and Blue Sing

Posted on March 24th, 2020 by Jan Wurm
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Red Yellow Blue, 2009, oil on canvas, triptych 60 x 144 in.

As the Twentieth Century dawned, painters could rest upon previous decades of color theory, research, and empirical exploration. In an evolving conversation about symbol, affect, and spiritualism, abstraction opened a visual language of a developing and expanding vocabulary.

From cubism through abstract expressionism through color field painting, the interests of painters took many paths to building a surface from the large gesture to the intimate mark.

After more than a century of non-objective painting, after a now deeply conversant language of abstracted systems, the painter stands in the studio with an array of possibilities. This Twenty-First Century position is one of great height and broad perspective. The artist faces a vast array of historical, political, and spiritual visions upon which to elaborate, a myriad of choices in a time that allows for any and all.

So it all the more worthy of reflection that figuration has persisted, re-emerged, repeatedly reared up to assert an impulse to represent: the experienced, dreamed, the feared, the longed for.

The pursued paths of painting often converge, but then verge off in directions revealing unique sensibilities. An involvement with color, indeed, the dominance of a color, has been pushed through the framework of expressionism, pop art, and the ever re-emerging expressionistic responses of successive generations.

With differing weights of color, the paintings are formed not only by the contrasting elements of hue, but on the pulsating shape activated by color. These elements define a space for the contrasting, the “other,” to live. And these very same elements provide the ground against which to push, to counter, to detach and be set free. The tension established by the assertion of picture plane and the separation of contrasting figure keeps the viewer in a comparable state of imbalance: moving in to the beckoning softness of the ground, and stepping back from the vibrating figure ready to fly off the canvas.

Here is a view of divergent possibilities: to encapsulate the figure in isolation or elation, to expound an iconic symbolism of subject, to lift and float freely toward the viewer – or for the color to lift off the surface and capture the viewer in that shared space – or, for the whisper of color to pull the viewer into the vortex of the painting. In the artist’s hand, the nature of color is compelling.

You’d Be Prettier If You Smiled – Identity, Gender, and Dissonance

Posted on March 24th, 2020 by Jan Wurm
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A smile is just a smile. Unless, of course, it isn’t. Smiles start out as reflex, and then, just about six weeks into this life, smiles become social. The smile connects us, makes us feel familiar, and evokes feelings of happiness. The pretty baby has its path paved.

But with maturity, that social smile has different meaning linked to gender. That smile has different value linked to culture. And that smile can become an untrustworthy sign leading to deeper dissonance when it masks underlying conflict.

If a cigarette or a bottle of whiskey is being sold to a targeted male consumer, the image of a rugged man may stare ahead with only his own thoughts in the world. Insert a woman into the sales pitch and she smiles, attracts, and engages. How women are expected to present themselves – how they are expected to perform and please – this social imperative is a challenge to the seriousness of competency and judgment.

There is the promise of a smile. It is an unspoken agreement to be agreeable, to be compliant, to acquiesce. And there is the equation of the pretty – it is agreeable, it conforms to norms, it is non-challenging.

But art has broader and deeper expectations than a pretty object to satisfy an aesthetic sensibility. Art is fortified by the new, the changing, the different. Art is an ever-evolving landscape of ideas and materials building upon, expanding, dismantling what stood before. A serene landscape gives way to a realism of poverty peeling away to a scientific schema of colored dots exploding then into expressive personal placement and then dissolving into a limpid blackness. Each generation pushes against the parent and the emerging artwork stands up to tussle with the past.

Art can take an object, place it on a wall or pedestal, shine a spotlight on it and illuminate or transform its meaning. In You’d Be Prettier If You Smiled, Susan Abbott Martin, Maria Porges, and Ashlee and Holly Temple upend this reproach to assert the primacy of concept and substance. These challenging artists take the idea of the object – or text or language itself – and transform it. It is an alchemy of materials. And yet, it is more. The elements that are brought together here are also evocative of memory, of loss, of inquiry, even of play.

Within a cultural tradition of development presenting itself in a reactive mode, and often even in an idealistic harkening-back to distant pasts, art turns on the unexpected. It rejects the calmly accepted. In these works the woman’s smile beckons, the lace delicately invites, but paint obliterates and the imposed word contradicts. Through iconic rendition domestic labor is re-characterized. Though evocative in form, the non-functional is not a tool. The word is surgically examined and the shift in meaning dissolves language. It strikes out for a beauty that startles, a beauty that can even encompass the tragic. This is a beauty that can raise the common to the heroic. The art object resists proscription. It resists stereotype. It insists on evaluation on its own terms. These artists resist the proscribed, resist stereotype. They insist on an alternative reading. They insist on their own terms.

The disparagement of craft, of decoration – the relegation of lower status to handwork – these confining and limiting indictments are pronounced over work regularly produced by women. But in these bodies of work that finesse the collaged images, polish the painted surface, and relish the fluid line of cursive, these artists have unhinged meaning from symbol. These works subvert the associations of tools and production – subvert the very language used to communicate. These works reverberate with a dissonance between delicate surface and powerful social indictment. Here the smile may be derisive. The smile may be sardonic. The smile may be ironic. Here, the smile may not be pretty.

Storied Paper

Posted on September 26th, 2018 by Jan Wurm
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Storied Paper

The beautiful soft black line of the charcoaled half-burned twig, the luscious red stain of the smashed berries, the powdery golden glow of the ochre clay earth – all came together on the stone walls to charm the day, record the event, and note the present.

But the stone could not be carried in migration and the stone could not be given in exchange; the stone could not be kept from alteration nor from degradation. And the stone could not be private or shared selectively.

But the animal hide could be rolled and carried. The surface was supple and absorbent. And then the smaller the animal, the thinner the skin. Scraped of hair and burnished to a glowing translucence, the parchment gave pigments an inner light, a depth and magical presence.

It was a long and demanding process from the hunt to the palette. A precious sheet on which to execute the most sacred of text or image. So paper from plant brought abundance – from pulp or cloth or mixture of fibers – making this supple and durable support to be taken in hand.

In this storied paper, artists have picked up small pieces of paper, large sheets of paper, pieced-together pieces of paper. The paper is the support for the silky charcoal of willow or grape vines or the rich oily black of compressed charcoal. It is the support for the earth pigments of chalks as it is for the powdery pigments of watercolor. It is the support for the inky black of lamp soot and the slick and shiny brilliance of oil pastel. Paper grasps the pigment with its fibers, it opens its pores to the fluid dye.

It is here on the seemingly endless supply of paper that the hand moves. Slowly, quickly, in concentric circles, in parallel lines, in fits and starts, digging in, gliding over, with even pace, with focused centrality – the hand moves as the thoughts tumble and spin. The marks across the paper record the visible and the imagined, the remembered and the dreamt. The fragments of thought and vision take form. They are readily altered, abandoned, revisited, revised, re-imagined, reconfigured. The images flow quickly, the images are built with measured plotting. Where we have been, what we have seen, how we have felt, who we are and what we want to hold close – all of this and the yet-unnamed speak across the surface of paper.

Outfitting Dreams and Dressing Our Wounds

Posted on September 26th, 2018 by Jan Wurm
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We knew before we could explain it, and we knew it needed no explanation – it was right there for everyone to see: the dress was magical. Our mother slipped into the dress – not the plaid cotton shirtwaist or striped shift or corduroy jumper – it was that soft black chiffon, that shimmering black taffeta, that mesmerizing black lace — and suddenly, magically, domestic wrangler Mom was transformed into the alluring woman over whom Daddy was bent, fastening her necklace with his lips at her ear.

We knew the magic would work for us, too. Oh, we might have to wait till we were twelve or thirteen, we already knew the rings and wristbands and jeans jacket kept his eyes tracking us in school. And by fifteen we knew the great T shirt and the right jeans and must-have-these-boots-in-California-summers were what made us shine, what would prove, without fail, completely enchanting.

Of course we helped, gave just a boost to that little dress with spaghetti straps: we wore just the right heels, added just the most diaphanous scarf, carried just the tiniest of bags. And naturally, he was charmed.

We remember just how he fell in love that night. We can point to the record. Right there in the corner of the closet floor. Those heels, which also yielded blisters, are boxed along with all the pointy-toed/square toed/round-toed/open-toed/high-top-sneaker high heels. We danced. We laughed. We kicked them off.

The shoes lifted us into the clouds, or at least high enough to gaze into his eyes. And that dress: slinky, soft, thin as air, almost not there. When he placed his hand on shoulder, waist, hip – well — it was like skin to skin. And that black/red/cream/floral/velvet/jersey/spandex sheath is hanging in the far right corner of that closet where we go to cry over John and Paul and Robert and Alistair. Where we go to assure ourselves that he loved us then. Where we go to reset the clock, incant the mantra that the little outfit could entrance anew.

And then we take courage, go out, and find the next little piece of magic for the next transformation.

“The Bride and Groom”

Extension of the Artist’s Hand

Posted on November 27th, 2015 by Jan Wurm
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wurmsundaydessertsmall wurm - keeping score - 06 copyThis is a time for thinking about gifts and giving. I have just spent weeks calling friends- artists, gallerists, collectors— and asking them to donate artwork to an art auction fundraiser. This year it is to benefit the Richmond Art Center. But I have called upon the same marvelous people in the past to support other art auction fundraisers. And these individuals, members of a small community, have all said yes. Every single one of them. It is a level of giving unimaginable in any other population. But artists support each other and the art culture which nourishes us all.

Artists give. They are asked on every occasion and they make a generous gift of that which they produce, that over which they have labored, that to which they have devoted their time, energies, and material financial investment.

At the opening of the exhibition, Closely Considered: Diebenkorn in Berkeley, a woman came up to me and said, “ I have Diebenkorn drawings.” One might imagine my eyes lighting up with interest, my brow rising with curiosity, my torso leaning toward this stranger. “ Oh ?!?!” Yes, Diebenkorn and his drawing group had engaged her father as a reader, reading poetry, or plays, as they drew. And at the end of the evening the drawings were spread on the floor and her father could choose a drawing for himself. Models will relate similar tales of art gifts.

Joe Slusky, a long-time friend of Elmer Bischoff, was invited by Bischoff’s widow, Adelie, to make a selection from a pile of drawings. Joe used these for years in teaching his own students. John Seed has written of the gift made to him by Lydia Park, the widow of David Park.

We love to make gifts and we begin with delight when we hand a painting to a parent, present a drawing of a hot rod to a friend, exchange a figure study with our cohorts in art school, or unveil a portrait to a lover. We are bound by these connections. Especially the exchange between artists carries a deep degree of sympathy and identification.

The joy of receiving such gifts is often followed by the torment of a later dilemma. Often the recipient of a gift of art is faced with the question of selling the painting or drawing or object for much needed financial benefit. John Seed sold his Park drawings, the recipient of a Diebenkorn cigar box sold his precious object, family members have sold paintings which seemed the embodiment of the artist himself. The transformation from gift to asset can strike hurt or anger in the donor. Anselm Kiefer was duly upset to have an old classmate ask him to sign a gift from student days, thus enhancing the market value.

It is an historical dilemma. When we read the letters of Camille Pissarro to his son, Lucien, we read of the ever present pull to sell a work given him by Degas. With a large family and in despair over money and lack of sales of his own work, Pissarro felt torn between having his beautiful Degas artwork and needing money for the maintenance of his family. Certainly the fact that the sale of an artwork can provide a struggling artist with a studio, the means of developing his own work, or the freedom from debt should only be met by delight by an artist who has had the historical good fortune to realize economic reward through his art.

Institutions may face similar choices. When the Royal College of Art put their Francis Bacon painting to auction, they were making a calculated assessment of what would be of greater benefit to their students: the painting on the college wall where it could be regarded in long contemplation, or the monetary compensation which could provide studio space for their students’ own artistic development. These questions appear to be of a different texture because they concern gifts, not a purchase converted to a different instrument, but a turning away from the nature of a gift and the relationship for which it stands.

For the most part we might be able to divine that an artist, as Bacon, would relish whatever a painting might fetch in exchange, even if only relief from a gambling debt. For the most part, artists are pleased that the painting or drawing or print or sculpture or photograph they donate can help an artist who is ill or has left a struggling widow — we remain connected to Degas and his friends who organized the exhibition of work to be sold to help the family left behind— we follow in a tradition of supporting those who live and breath the same cavernous spaces or solvent soaked air.

Ultimately it falls to our small community to support the teaching, the art making, the sustenance of the artist and the maintenance of the art. What strikes me in these days of winter as we gather together in support of the Richmond Art Center, an institution with eighty years of history exhibiting artists and nurturing their development, what stands out for me in bold black and white, what shouts out in vibrant color, is the humor maintained by our artists, the faith maintained by our gallerists, and the grace with which all is given.

Which is to say, it is awesome.

-Jan Wurm
November 25, 2015
In preparation for the Richmond Art Center Holiday Arts Festival Auction on Saturday, December 5th supported by
Richard Ambrose, Jean Cacicedo, Enrique Chagoya, Judy Dater, Gene Erickson, Claire Falkenstein Foundation, Katie Hawkinson, Ellen Hauptli, Ana Lisa Hedstrom , Ray Holbert, John Hundt, Diana Krevsky, Carol Ladewig, Hung Liu, Malcolm Lubliner, Kara Maria, Juan Carlos Quintana, Hilda Robinson, Kay Sekimachi, Nancy Selvin, Richard Shaw, Joe Slusky, Livia Stein, Terry St.John, Inez Storer, John Wehrle, Heather Wilcoxon, Paulson Bott Press, the Jack Fischer Gallery, Dolby Chadwick Gallery, and Danny Aarons.

What the Postman Brought

Posted on November 27th, 2015 by Jan Wurm
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                           photo copy                                       photo

A call went out for Beasties, and the response slipped and slithered in: Creatures from the Black Lagoon, Slithery Serpents from under Black Rocks, Flying Winged Vultures swooping down from Black Skies.

There was a natural flow in the gathering of creatures. And there was quite a bit of laughter from the humor in some of the seemingly funny but actually not whimsical at all but rather unsettling in an off-kilter /disturbing aspect from which the humor deflected.

But what proved particularly interesting were the recurring themes. Images not simply of animals in fairy tales, but the repeated images of the Big Bad Wolf and Little Red Riding Hood. Stripped bare and frankly sexually viewed, or diagrammed and analytically plotted, the ancient tale remains a viable vehicle for viewing men and women in society today.

Employing collage in a pristine void ultimately spoke more lucidly than the thrashing and bashing of most wild brushstrokes. Here the blade proved mightier than the pen in works which fractured for a vision more eloquent than cohesion.

And then, far darker than any imaginings or inner demons, there was the ecological messenger of mess: the jellyfish. Predators overfished from the oceans, multiplying with abandon in ever warmer waters, unruffled by acidity or dead zones, jellyfish bloom, clog and halt, interfere and proceed undeterred. They reflect our own environmental horrors and present us with endlessly distressing scenarios. Jellyfish, the new Creature of the Black Lagoon.

Like a song of call and response, the open exhibition frames and gives structure to the daily concerns and real life matters of the respondents. Across a wide range of media, the artists represented here have created works revealing the inner struggle, the daily conflict, the recurring nightmare.

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