Blog Archives

Pearls from artists* # 626

With “Narcissist,” soft pastel on sandpaper, 28.5” x 35” framed

*an ongoing series of quotations – mostly from artists, to artists – that offers wisdom, inspiration, and advice for the sometimes lonely road we are on.

Being an artist and a woman has never been easy. In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, leading male artists – tackling five-meter-high marble sculptures and covering entire chapels with frescoes – were often termed ‘virtuosi,’ while women, simply by virtue of their gender, received neither the acclaim nor the opportunities. As time progressed, attitudes did not: it took until the end of the nineteenth century for women to be allowed to study the nude from life. Linda Nochlin has described this deprivation as though a medical student was denied the opportunity to dissect or even examine the naked human body.’Even today, the contribution of women artists tends to be missing from history books and museum collections. It wasn’t until 1976, when feminist art historian Nochlin and Ann Sutherland Harris’s touring exhibition, Women Artists 1550 – 1950, opened at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, that women were even acknowledged as having contributed to 400 years of art.This show kick-started the scholarship, still scant, that we have on these twentieth-century artists.

Katy Hessel in The Story of Art Without Men

Comments are welcome!

Pearls from artists* # 128

 

 

Self-portrait with "Some Things We Regret"

Self-portrait with “Some Things We Regret”

* an ongoing series of quotations – mostly from artists, to artists – that offers wisdom, inspiration, and advice for the sometimes lonely road we are on.

A chastening day yesterday.  Color rose up and towered over me and advanced toward me.  A tsunami – only that terrifying Japanese word for tidal wave will do – of color, and I was swept off my feet.  In a frenzy, I tried to catch it.  Sheet after sheet of Arches paper spread around the studio, covering all the surfaces of all my tables and finally the floor.  I tried to keep one step ahead all morning.  In the afternoon, I managed to get a toehold, and once again recognized my limitation:  that vestige of all that a human being could know that is what I do know.  I see this delicate nerve of myself as unimpressive.  The fact is that is all I have.  The richness of years, contained like wine in the goatskin of my body, meets my hand narrowly. 

Anne Truitt in Turn:  The Journal of an Artist

Comments are welcome!