Illustration Features Coby

The illustration above (click to enlarge) is by Coby Whitmore (1913-88) whose career flourished in the years before television began killing off the big general-interest magazines.

Whitmore could be classed as one of the "big head" school of illustration, where backgrounds disappeared and the focus was on a gorgeous women who sometimes had a handsome man in the scene as a supporting cast member. And there might be a few stage setting details such as an end table, doorway or chair sketched in. That "big head" phrase was derision from a slightly earlier generation of illustrators who included detailed backgrounds in their work, the implication being that the new breed was lazy.

Me? I think Whitmore's work is terrific.

And if you are a Whitmore fan or are curious about my enthusiasm, grab a copy of issue number 37 of Illustration Magazine. It contains a long, well-illustrated article on Whitmore that features many quotations from the artist. Such quotes are rare in Illustration because in many cases their subjects died many years earlier and left little trace other than fading pictures in crumbling magazines.

Be warned that Illustration can be hard to find on news stands (try Barnes & Noble bookstores first) and the publisher often sells off his on-line order supply fairly fast. I got to the point where I subscribed to the magazine to ensure that I could get a copy.

Gem of an Automobile Museum

Automobile museums are all different, yet in many ways similar -- especially the Important Museums. By that I mean car museums with large collections here in America seem obliged at have at least one Duesenberg, one Cord, a Ford Model T, an early 1900s antique of some description, a Packard from any era plus at least one car from the 1930s with either a V-12 or V-16 motor.

So it was with surprise and pleasure that I recently visited the Tampa Bay Automobile Museum, a gem filled with cars seldom seen here in the United States. Moreover, the collection is built around a theme: most car museums strike me as being filled with whatever nice-to-have vehicles that pop up on the market, creating a sort of random effect.

The Tampa Bay museum's collection core is built around two poles. One is cars with engines in the rear, the other is cars with front-wheel drive. Oh, and those cars had to be from the era 1920-1950. Because most cars with those characteristics were built in Europe in those days, I saw many cars that I've never encountered in person before. (Sadly, I've never visited European Automobile museums; one does have to make travel compromises with one's spouse, after all.)

Let's take a look at some photos from my visit:

Gallery

Ruxton - 1929
Ruxton was an American front-wheel-drive car that reached the market when the Great Depression hit; only a few hundred were made. The four-tone paint scheme was designed by Joseph Urban who also created a similar scheme based on blue.

Tracta E - 1930
Another low-production fwd car, this by Jean-Albert Gregoire (1898-1992) of France, father of numerous automobile engineering innovations. I confess not to have heard of the brand before.

Aero - 1937
Another brand previously unknown to me. This fwd car was built in Czechoslovakia.

Tatra T87 - c.1942
The Czech Tatra firm built several series of rear-engined cars from the mid 1930 to the late 1970s. The one shown here is to me the archetypical version.

Tatra T97 - 1938

Tatra Tatraplan - late 1940s

Voisin C7 - 1927
The power train layout is the traditional front-motor-rear-drive. I include it because it's a Voisin and it's body is constructed of wood and doped fabric of the Weymann type.

Panhard Dynamic - 1938
Some (many?) French cars are rather ugly, and this Panhard is near the top of the list. The drive train is conventional. But note the covered wheels and three-piece wraparound windshield. And if you look closely, you'll find that the steering wheel is mounted at the middle of the dashboard -- neither right nor left. In the 1930s, luxury French cars had right-hand steering while mass-market cars mounted the steering wheel on the left. Traffic in France followed the German and American pattern, so expensive French cars were better suited for driving in Britain or Czechoslovakia. Apparently Panhard wanted to split the difference.

Santa Barbara: Smaller Museum, Useful Collection

Some museums are more comprehensive than others. Nevertheless, some specialization is necessary due to inevitable budgetary limitations. And then there is the factor of donations of art over the years.

Other specialization is voluntary. For example, New York's Museum of Modern Art, as its name states, focuses on modernism in its various guises. And the Albright-Knox Art Gallery in Buffalo, New York set in motion a de-acquisition program a few years ago in order to focus on art of the recent past (scroll down in the link for more information).

I suspect most art museums fall into the former category with some added policy steering by whoever is running things at any given time. The result of all this is a museum's character as perceived by visitors. For instance, the largest art museum in my neck of the woods is the Seattle Art Museum. The downtown building has some paintings from 1500-1700, a lot of modernist art and a decent collection of art by Northwest "mystic" painters such as Morris Graves and Mark Tobey. What is almost completely missing is 19th and very early 20th century art, though some bequests might improve matters eventually. The Portland Art Museum down the freeway in Oregon is much stronger for that period.

Another west coast museum in an even smaller metropolitan area that has some nice late 19th and early 20th century paintings is the Santa Barbara Museum of Art, described in the link. Its web site is here, a link to its European collection is here and the American collection link is here.

The collection links are worth exploring because they contain thumbnail images of many (most? all?) the works in each collection; I saw a number of these recently while visiting Santa Barbara. To me the most impressive work that I don't illustrate below is William Merritt Chase's portrait of his wife, a large painting that might or might not be finished -- detailing other than the face is somewhat sketchy.

Here is a sampling of items in the collection. Aside from the Monet, none are well-known, but they provide viewers a decent idea as to what some famous artists were doing.

Gallery

The Manhattan Club (Stewart Mansion) by Childe Hassam - c.1891

Steaming Streets by George Bellows - 1908

Les bles murs by Jules Bastien-Lepage - 1884

View of Paris from the Trocadedro by Berthe Morisot - 1872

Waterloo Bridge by Claude Monet - 1900

Notre Dame Dorée by Maurice Utrillo - 1911

2nd Blog Birthday

Today marks two years since the first post of this blog appeared.

The start was slow, daily pageview tallies were in the 40-80 range for the first six months. But the pace picked up and now pageview counts are nicely in the 1,000-1,500 range (viewing drops off around any Saturday) and the cumulative amount as of this posting is about 360,000.

It's getting to the point where I'll allow advertising. That will make both Google and my wife happy and will help subsidize the research that goes into many of the posts you read here.

So a hearty thank you to all you readers, be you regulars or occasionals, for motivating me to keep the blog rolling.

In the Beginning: Marcel Duchamp

Nude Descending a Staircase No. 2 - 1912
Marcel Duchamp (1887-1968) painted little after completing the iconic work shown above. Instead, he focused on playing chess, advising art collectors and creating non-art assemblages that he claimed were art, setting the stage for all that wonderful Postmodernism we've been subjected to for the past 50 years.

But his past, those pre-"Nude" days, are largely terra incognita so far as Standard Narrative Art History is concerned. Perhaps that's because it might damage Duchamp's reputation if

this image was widely known and associated with his name.

What you see is a detail of the painting below.

Portrait d'Yvonne Duchamp-Villon née Bon - 1907
I spotted it recently while visiting the Ringling Museum of Art in Sarasota, Florida.

Roadside Encounters: California, Winter 2012

I like to travel by car. I've driven in every state of the USA except Alaska. And I've driven in a number of countries in western Europe. (Though not in central or eastern Europe: I worry about encountering a "Danger, Bridge Out" sign written in languages I don't know such as Hungarian or the Slavic ones.) I even drove a jeep once in Korea many years ago when children played in the streets and much of the traffic was by oxcarts. But I let Sergeant Kim do all the driving after that because I was afraid I'd kill someone.

Car travel allows one to see a good deal of local detail while covering reasonably long distances in a day if need be. And it's usually easy to pull over to get a good look at something interesting.

Below are a few things I came across while traveling in California last winter.

Gallery

Senator Theatre, Chico, California
The Senator was built in 1928 when Art Deco or Moderne was the rage. Actually, the most Deco feature is the tower -- the roof is typical California tile and those arches at street level also hark more to Spanish Colonial than Deco.

1930s Packard - Chico, California
Not far away I noticed this late-1930s Packard with a nicely restored custom body. It is used by a nearby hotel.

City Hall - Nevada City, California
Nevada City is in the Sierra Nevada foothills. The city hall's Art Deco style is somewhat out of synch with the rest of the streetscape, yet charming to look at. The link suggests that it was a 1930s New Deal funded structure.

On side of shop, Malibu, California
Malibu is an affluent coastal strip city that's home to surfers and entertainment industry personalities. The sign shown above is probably meant to be humorous; well, that's the way I took it.

Stanton Macdonald-Wright and Synchromism

Although there might be some earlier instances, abstract painting entered the artistic scene with a rush shortly after 1910. This occurred in Europe, though American artists were part of the abstract pack, even proclaiming their own "ism."

The "ism" was Synchromism and the artists were Morgan Russell (1886-1953) and Stanton Macdonald-Wright (1890-1973) whose Wikipedia entry is here and other biographical information is here. In the present posting, I deal with Macdonald-Wright.

Synchromism itself is rather hard to pin down, as this Wikipedia entry suggests. Its theoretical basis seems to have music as its model and is an attempt to analogize its scales, harmonies and so forth with respect to colors in paintings. As a movement, Synchromism was pretty much over by 1920, though for a while it had influenced other artists including Thomas Hart Benton who is better known for his American Scene works. In any case, art history currently regards it as a minor movement: of the two books on my bookshelf listing art movements, one mentions Synchromism and the other does not.

Macdonald-Wright was interviewed for an oral history project when in his early 70s: the transcript is here. Below are some remarks taken from it. Besides Synchromism, he notes that Americans were considered barbarians in Europe and expresses the opinion that Picasso was not a good artist.

The link includes the following statement: "Quotes and excerpts must be cited as follows: Oral history interview with Stanton Macdonald-Wright, 1964 Apr. 13-Sept. 16, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution." Tags are SM for Macdonald-Wright and BH for the interviewer, Betty Lochrie Hogue.


* * * * *
BH: I wanted to ask you more about Morgan Russell and the Synchromy movement. It has often been compared to Orphism. Would you care to comment on that?

SM: It has nothing to do with Orphism and anybody who has read the first catalogue of Synchromism of the Bernheim Jeune exhibition of 1913, or of the Nue [sic] Kunst Salon Exhibition in Munich of the same year would realize that we poked fun at Orphism and at Delaunay in spite of the fact the Delaunay was a good friend of mine. But the artists of that time did that. We had nothing whatever to do with it.... They linked us up with it for a very simple reason, which I think every American who has been to Europe and has spent any time thinking about what happened to him over there would recognize. And that is, that we were Americans and ipso facto if we were Americans we were barbarians. And ipso facto, if we were barbarians, we couldn't do anything original and naturally being in France where the gods of art had their being, we would have to be some way influenced by the French. So we were put in under that and in that catalogue we stated very specifically in the first lines of it that we called ourselves Synchromists in order that we not be dragged into a movement of which we had no possible relationship at all.

BH: About the only similarity was they were both moving toward abstraction?

SM: They were both color. Delaunay had a very delicate sense of color, a very charming sense of color. Delaunay was probably right in the French tradition of its most magnificent decorative quality, just as Braque was afterward. But I consider Delaunay, in spite of our arguments (and we've had even fisticuffs at different meetings with Delaunay; we liked each other very much) -- I considered Delaunay and Braque to be the two greatest men of that particular movement. I don't consider Picasso to be a great artist in any sense of the word.

[Morgan] Russell and I both studied with a man by the name of Tudor Harte in Paris. He was an Englishman, perfectly stark-raving mad, a man very much interested in color. The three of us (that is Tudor Harte, Russell and I) were experimenting in color which we worked on from (you might call it) a chrome psychological basis.... He [Russell] was a man who had a great --, what should I say? -- intuitive grasp of color possibilities. He himself painted, but he was probably the worst painter who ever lived. And he couldn't use his own theories at all, although they were, in the main, pretty solidly established. He worked it by relating the color spectrum of the 12 notes to the chromatic scale on the piano; and from that he would separate by interval -- the same interval would separate the piano that produces diatonic scale.

That's what Tudor Harte considered he was doing. Making a scientific variation on certain theories of Helmholtz's. Only he thought he went still further than Helmholtz by -- what shall I say -- making it available so people could make practical application of color from the standpoint of painting and harmony.

BH: This certainly was important to you and Russell in your painting because it was shortly after this that you propounded Synchromism, wasn't it?

SM: Yes. Well, 2 or 2 years after that, yes.


* * * * *
Here are examples of Macdonald-Wright's work from various points in his career:

Wright at the unveiling of his Santa Monica, California library mural - August 25, 1935

Abstraction on Spectrum (Organization 5) - c.1914-17
A pure Synchromist painting.

Airplane Synchromy - 1920
Here non-abstract elements appear.

Earth Synchromy - c.1925

Portrait of a Woman - 1925

Portrait of Riza Royce - 1932
Note the whiff of Synchromism in the background.

Oriental Synchromy

Portrait of Willard Huntington Wright - 1913-14
Wright's brother who is best known by his pen-name S.S. Van Dyne of the Philo Vance detective novel series. This painting was done while Macdonald-Wright was in the thick of his early Synchromism.

Raigo - 1955
A later abstract painting in the Synchromist spirit.

So far as I am concerned, abstract paintings are essentially decorative despite what the movement's apologists might claim. In that context, I find Macdonald-Wright's purely Synchromist works pleasing to look at, having nice, pretty colors. Things go downhill in paintings where he tries to graft Synchromism with Cubism ("Airplane") or representational elements. I think the Synchromism simply gets in the way, not enhancing the visual experience as its theory would have it.