Just a Second ago, I Thought I Rewound that Tape...

Today, I heard, for the first time, the musician Jeremy Messersmith. I can't imagine ever not having the name Messersmith on my mind now. I feel like that one word could effectively change my entire vocabulary, and affect how I see language as a whole. Communication will never be the same again.
As for visual artists, I heard just a bit ago that a new painting was discovered from artist Giovanni Boldini. I decided to look him up, since I liked the look of what was found. There's someone his work reminds me of, but I can't think of who it is. He has such a classical style, but with such a modern feel. Ironic since he didn't live past 1931. Perhaps that's not all that ironic now that I think about it.
I feel like his paintings exemplify my opinion of talent. I feel like when someone has clearly more talent than they know what to do with, they can basically start to play with it. Kind of like the scene in Amadeus that takes place backstage after a show and Mozart's just playing around on his piano but playing gorgeous melodies, while the singers that accompanied him drink and sing with the same level of professionalism and play. People would have payed so much to be allowed to see what was essentially nothing to them. By that point, they'd become such masters of their craft that it could simply pour forth with no effort. It was like a reflex for them. I feel like I'm seeing the same thing at work in Boldini's paintings. The way so many of his backgrounds are simply thrown in, but work so well, and accomplish such immense beauty. So much of his paint has a sort of whirlwind fury to its application. The kind of thing that looks as though it should have been mindless, but in the hands of someone like him, it can't help but have been mindful. He leaves so much suggested and alluded to rather than directly addressed, and he's good enough to make it work.
For the past few days I've been sort of obsessed with the song I Hate My Toaster by Two Piece Squirrel. I feel like that song goes perfectly with Boldini's work. It absolutely doesn't, of course, but I don't care, I feel like it works so well.
He makes me want to give up the dream that I'll ever accomplish anything.

The Gorging Teuton

I remember when I first saw the artwork of James Jean. That's a lie, actually, I don't remember specifically when it was, but I do remember what it was. He had painted (I say painted, but in reality I don't have the slightest clue as to how this image was made) a picture of Ichabod Crane meeting up with Cinderella in Paris. She was waiting for him, draped across a chez lounge, talking on a red phone. Cinderella's figure and the lounge occupied the lower 1/3 of the picture space. Her body stretches just off the border, so her face isn't actually in the image, other than its reflection in the mirror behind the lounge. She's clearly looking away from Ichabod, who's removing his jacket while approaching her. He's in shadow. I feel that the expression he wears is as decipherable as is the technique that went in to making the image itself. He appears to be smiling, elated in fact. There's clearly supposed to be no question that he's ecstatic to be with her, to the point that he's probably giving a chuckle. At the same time, though, I can't help but get the distinct impression that he's crying. I can't tell if he's on his way to a romantic rendezvous, or his child's funeral. He appears to almost know what's about to happen. We see the cityscape reflected behind Ichabod, and as it fades off, the image begins to break down, going from clear and distinct in the foreground, to an almost blurred newsprint image seen through the window of a speeding car in the background. It makes me feel as if I'm eating coffee grounds out of the garbage. I love that feeling. The perspective in the image feels all off, and the levels of darkness seem overwhelming, but it all works. It works to me at least, I don't know if it technically works. It seems that the image is supposed to be taken from Ichabod's viewpoint as he approaches Cinderella, but I get so wrapped up in the feel and the narrative that I have trouble conveying this to myself. Times like this I wish I weren't susha fool.
I supposed it's fair to say that this image sort of defines James Jean's work to me. It conveys a little of everything I like about him. He has such a wonderful method of depicting the human figure, and mixing his own brand of cartooned personality with his own brand of realism. Everything looks very life-like, but slightly off, like the perspective. Everyone looks as if they know a little too much about life in his work. The expressions his characters wear seem to convey that they've just seen their sibling die in front of their eyes. I wish I knew how he was able to make a face convey so many different emotions at once.
His use of light and shadow is, at all times, something that would never ever occur to me. He has such a wonderful way of utilizing darkness. Sometimes, the shadows are cut into solid shapes, which are then occupied by entirely different images, showcasing entirely different techniques. Two contradictory images composing one amazingly executed whole. How the hell is that possible? It's fitting that everything he does feels like a dream, because I usually have to take a moment when faced with the realization that he's a real person, living on the earth at the same time as me.

Stalk Steady on a Hardwood Floor

The paintings of Amanda Visell draw me in, and break my heart. Her imagery is like a deluge of narrative (oh yeah, I said it). I've never seen a human beings artwork that was more perfectly suited for the illustration of childrens books. I marvel at the idea of the kind of person I may have turned into if I'd have had her visuals to guide me through my youth. I am sure I'd be a much happier person in my adult life.
Visell builds complex imagery out of very simple shapes, which she makes no effort to hide, as if her pieces were assembled from paper cutouts. The straight edged look of her figures appears as though I should be disdainful of it, like it's sloppy and unkempt, but I couldn't feel more different about it, which both intrigues and confuses me. The aloof expression worn by her characters allow me a blank slate upon which to impose as much emotion as I'd like, which roughly translates to some of the most emotionally stunted cast ever seen in a collected body of work. At no time in her paintings do her color choices feel anything less than essential. Everything she paints is so complimentary of itself that her images seem to set neatly on a delicate framework of sheer professionalism. The color accents she provides her work are what really set them off to me. They looks as though they were applied with a sort of dry brushing technique, allowing chance to play a role in the overall composition, which I find to be a brave and highly respectable choice. One that I lack the spine for.

The Grass Menagerie

Tomer Hanuka has been a favorite artist of mine for years, now. To this day, he is at the center of one of my fondest memories. I remember a friend of mine, who was living outside of the country at the time, bought me one of his limited edition prints as a gift. It's one of the greatest gifts I've ever received, and a spectacular start to a personal art collection.
I love Hanuka's style of elongating the human figure, and exaggerating the pose. His work brings to mind the word "sinew" for me, because the muscles of all of his characters seem to me to be just on the verge of bursting. When I see the kind of people that he works into his imagery, I can't help but have the oxygen pushed out of my lungs, as if I've just run a marathon and now I'm doubled over and gasping for air with such force that my eyes are about to roll out of my head and down the sidewalk. Bye-bye eyes.
In addition to his figure quality, I also love his line quality. His figures are worked up with such fine lines that indicate a distinct surgical precision. The perfect compliment to that is the way in which he applies color. His color use comes across to me like a foreign language. At times, I can make out what he's doing, but then he hits these stints of verbose subtlety that befuddle my mind  and require a second and third look. It's rare that I can stair straight at something and still not know what I'm looking at, but Tomer Hanuka manages the illusion, somehow.

Let's Spin a Dreidel at Breakneck Speed

Just today...just right this second, in fact, I discovered the website of an illustrator named Nathan Fox . Art like his literally makes me feel excited, as if my skeleton is on the verge of jumping out of my skin. I love the narrow line work, and solid colors. All of the images he creates are so vibrant, and full of life. His characters are insanely expressive. His color palette is so bright and bold that it's practically shouting off the page. The website is wonky, at best, but it's more than excusable, as I find it difficult to hold too much against someone whose art I appreciate so much.
When I see illustrations like this, they make me wish I had the guts to experiment with a medium outside that of oil paint, and to let my line work build the form, instead of manipulation of lights and darks. I don't hesitate for a second in thinking that's the way I've always wished I was making art.
I wish I knew more about his techniques, I feel like there's something so subtle about the work of illustrators that will always allude me.