Secret Still

Even though Autumn Whitehurst’s work is mostly commercial, I was so impressed with her style that I completely ignored the marketing ties. She creates the delicate female characters of someone like Audrey Kawasaki, but in an airbrushed vector style that blows my little mind. But on top of her mastery of technique she adds in perfect color palettes and a sense of styling and composition most fashion photographers would envy. I know that maybe her work isn’t as large on personal message as I’ve been looking for lately, but sometimes perfection is its own message.

Autumn Whitehurst

This is not normally the realm of subject that I post about, but Drawn! led me to the blog of Oswald Iten this morning where I became engrossed for over an hour. Iten is going through the movie 101 Dalmatians (animated, not the live-action abomination) frame by frame and analyzing the use of color in the film. It’s a seriously in-depth look at color theory and composition in 101 Dalmatians, and boils down to lessons you might never have learned without shelling out some major dough. I’ve watched this film plenty of times in the past, and have noticed a small number of points that Iten talks about, but most of his discussion is miraculously eye-opening. I’m gonna have to drop Dalmatians in to my Netflix queue immediately, and then spend some quality time pouring through it. And another weekend is lost.

Color in 101 Dalmations

I came across the work of Joe Schlaud through the GoodWood project. He’s got a couple of skate decks up for auction and they got me a’wonderin’. Schlaud is relatively new on the scene, if you’re counting by shows his work has been in (which I’m not), but he’s already got a nice portfolio stacked up. I’m especially fond of his Civil War portraits, which have great mood and a little dash of symbolism mixed in. Hell, I even like his paintings of fruit. Keep a cornea directed towards Mr. Schlaud for the next couple of years; you won’t regret it.

Joe Schlaud

In continuing to talk about message and purpose in art, let me throw in the work of Ethan Hayes-Chute. I believe that ultimately abstract works, which Hayes-Chute’s work is mostly, are more of a mirror than they are a message. Of course the artist is usually discussing a fucking ton of things with their work in the abstract, the vast availability of space for discussion is probably the reason they chose abstract in the first place. But ultimately that space is what the audience is going to see, and they will fill it with themselves (because that’s all any of us have as a reference). Hayes-Chute’s paintings feature slivers and shards of daily life, as if the world had been blown up and reassembled by gravity and wind alone. What does your life look like flying through the air in millions of pieces? Is that the question he’s trying to ask me? Maybe, but it’s the question I ask myself when looking at his work. He provides the space, and I fill it with myself. The key to creating art that will effect the audience, that can, in fact, change the audience emotionally, is to create on canvas those spaces that the artist has in common with the audience. Everyone will fill in the blanks differently, but they will need to fill them in, and they will do so together, artist and audience. Does E. H.-C. manage that? I wouldn’t have mentioned his work if he didn’t. Plus, I have daydreams about building a boat with my friends, and he actually did it. That’s a whole different kind of message.

Ethan Hayes-Chute

I’ve been thinking a lot about messages lately, namely the messages that artists are trying to convey to their audience with their work, if they are at all. You’ll probably notice that I post a little less frequently, and that’s because I’m focusing on finding works that actually have a purpose. I appreciate the scribbly drawings of a hesher rocking out in a van, but it’s not what I’m interested in right now. What I am interested in is work like Marian Bantjes’ new piece for Creative Review titled Love Stories. Each piece in the series is an illustrated text story of someone that she loves, and very few can illustrate text as well as Bantjes. This series explains fairly well what I mean about a message. It’s personal to the artist, explains to the reader something powerful that is felt, and does so in a way that is original and insightful and beautiful. Ta da: art. Bantjes covers the loves of her life including, oddly enough, the dentist and cake. Oh my God do I understand her about the cake. Each piece reflects the nature of the person(s) who inspired it, and at the same time shares a personal insight about that person’s relationship with the artist. Even without her immense talent, Bantjes could never have failed with this work, because she’s discussing an emotion as she feels it. I’m pretty sure that I can’t discuss this in less than 2000 words or more than three. Art must feel.

Marian Bantjes: Love Stories

At first I was really frustrated by Eleanor Yap’s website. The text is so light I almost didn’t see it. Just as I was set to rant about it, I realized that it fit perfectly with her work. Yap’s pieces are wonderfully colorful and intricate. Adding anything else to the site around them would detract from that instead of accent it. And you will definitely need the full attention of both eyes to try and take in all the color and shape. Yap’s work looks like a kaleidoscope made from plants and flowers, or like a nice riotous acid trip in the heart of the jungle. Like her website, I won’t say anymore about the work; I’ll let it speak for itself.

Eleanor Yap

Coming in hot (and coinciding with one of today’s videos) is Philly artist Leanne Biank. Do Philadelphia residents hate when people call it Philly, as much as I hate San Fran or Frisco? Just wondering. Aside from being button cute, Biank throws down some amazing work in a variety of mediums. There doesn’t seem to be a substance that she can’t create beauty with. Her work falls somewhere in between some Blaine Fontana and Jason Sho Green, but with a composition and lexicon of symbolism all her own. If I had a rating system for work around here, this would get two high fives, which would have to be the highest rating because I only have two hands. I mean, I could do feet, too, but no one needs to touch my feet. That’s damaging for everyone involved.

Leanne Biank

Ok, look. I tend to keep pretty up-to-date on art related whatnots. It’s one of the only things I give a crap about. What I’m wondering is how Slingshot Press can be in their 18th week of 50 prints by 50 artists (that’s one print per week) for $50 without my knowing about it. It takes Ryan Heshka sending out an e-mail about his new (and fucking fantastic) print released by Slingshot for me to uncover this ballin’ ass project? I don’t normally do this but let me break down a list of the artists that have already released prints: Ryan Heshka (natch), Glenn Barr, Esther Pearl Watson, Mitch O’ Connell, Chris Ryniak, Kendyl Lauzon, Rick Reese, Gary Taxali, Jason Limon, Lisa Petrucci, Melinda Beck, Matt Dangler, Jennifer Tong, Jordon Isip, Mark Fraunfelder, Paul Chatem, Kelly Vivianco, and Mark Todd. I mean, are you fucking kidding me? That is a badass list, man. There is a slim chance that I heard about this project and maybe ignored it because I don’t have $50 to sling on prints (I spend it on skateboarding), but I doubt it. I usually tell you about cool stuff, right? We talk about things? We’re still friends? I’m riddled with self-doubt now. Thanks for that, Slingshot Press. Damn you and you’re amazing prints.

Slingshot Press

NYC artist Michael Mararian sent me an e-mail about his new show that just opened at Corey Helford Gallery in LA. And thank God. I wish the rest of you would give that a try. Save me the 8 years that I spend every day tracking down good work. True, I might not like your stuff, but I won’t tell you that. I’ll just let it pass on by. It’s like hitting on someone in a bar; either it works out or it doesn’t, no one gets hurt from trying. If Mararian’s work came up to me in a bar it would clearly be getting lucky. Or I would run the hell away. It’s hard to tell. In his own words, Mararian’s Inky Dreadfuls “is like the sensibilities of Edward Gorey meets the Americana of Norman Rockwell,” and I’m gonna throw in: with the draftsmanship of Durer. In his new show titled Phobias, Foibles & Fiends, M.M. takes on the world of fear and folly with a cast of morose moppets (dude, I am hitting the alliteration hard today). The works are all black and white brilliance except for the occasional blood red or infernal fiery orange, and many come in their own ornate Edwardian frames. There are still a few available for you to purchase and hang above your steampunk LCD TV. That’s right, I mocked steampunk. Now take off those waistcoats, assholes.

M. Mararian’s Inky Dreadfuls

I see a lot of great work most days. I see a lot of bad work, too, but I can filter it pretty well. Maybe about five or six times a year I actually see something that moves me, that is deeply personal yet completely open, a shared experience of emotion through art. That is certainly the ultimate goal of any artwork. This morning I came across a photo-essay titled Days with My Father by the photographer Phillip Toledano. The series captures Toledano’s life with his father, who has no short term memory, after Toldeano’s mother died. The series is heartbreaking and hopeful, and brought up a mix of emotions I wasn’t expecting. It’s interesting to see someone else’s perspective on their feelings for their father, and to view my own paternal relationship in that light. Toledano shows his mastery of the photographic art as well with each staggeringly expressive shot. Every portrait captures the sum total of the subject, even though that total is completely different from one shot to the next. At the heart of the series is just the simple act of a son demonstrating his love for his father in the only way that he knows to express such powerful emotions. You can almost stand at the edge of the limitless expanse that is that love and peer over. Almost. Some things are just too personal. Now I’ve gotta go call my dad.

Phillip Toledano: Days with My Father