Transformations / May 17, 2015 by Jeannine Cook

Transformations from the object an artist is viewing to the art created always seem like magic. No matter how lucid an explanation is given about how the artist gets from point A, the subject matter, to point B, the resultant artwork, there always seems to be another dimension. Perhaps that is because none of us can really get into the head of another human being, no matter how. Each of us is that proverbial "island unto ourselves" and that includes the conscious or subconscious process by which art is created. Of course, there is that other aspect - that the art that happens is also somewhat of a mystery to the artist as well. Each artist really never knows what is going to happen during the art-making process, no matter how carefully the preparation is done, or how meticulously laid out the plan for the work.

Personally, I am learning, slowly, simply to trust that small voice inside my head that says, "look hard at what you are seeing, allow your eye to select the next aspect to draw or paint, and just go with the zeitgeist of that moment of creation." In other words, relax, don't think too hard and work intuitively as much as possible. I have also come to realise, with time, that whether I like it or not, my life experiences, my personality - who I am - will come through my art, for good or for bad.

I was trying simply to live intuitively in the moment last week when I had one of my rare, precious times to draw en plein air. I found an amazing live oak "sculpture" of the remains of a mighty tree - just the stump, the essence of sinews and strength.

Live Oak Tree Stump I, photographer J. Cook

Live Oak Tree Stump II, photographer J. Cook

The sunlight was shining on parts like a floodlight, and they sang. The only trouble was that of course, the sun moved, the light changed and other parts began to be more visible and the aspects that had interested me simply faded into shadow! Paciencia, as the Spanish say!

Nonetheless, by the end of the time spent in peace and fascination, I had done some small metalpoints. They are a version of this mysterious alchemy of transformations.

Rhythms of Oak, silverpoint-Prismacolor, artist Jeannine Cook

Live Oak Lingering, gold-silverpoint, artist Jeannine Cook

The Intensity of Size - Big or Small in Art / April 19, 2015 by Jeannine Cook

When I went to see the Richard Diebenkorn survey at the Royal Academy in London recently, I found it interesting but was surprised at my lack of excitement at seeing most of the work. The Ocean Park series on display were, of course, the most lyrical, but again, I was reminded of an internal conversation I frequently have with myself. Does a really big canvas manage to convey the intensity of the artist's passion? Or does the sheer size become, in many cases, a path to dilution of that excitement and energy? If you have to go on labouring day after day to paint huge surfaces, do you run out of steam? Of course, it is not always the case by any means — think of the Sistine Chapel ceiling, when Michelangelo laboured day after day in the most difficult of physical positions and conditions, and yet he achieved a power and impact of work that reverberates for every viewer.

Nonetheless, not every artist is a Michelangelo. And in the case of Richard Diebenkorn, I personally found that all his large canvases began to lack intensity. My reaction to these works was unexpectedly reinforced by three small paintings hung amongst the Ocean Park canvases.

They were three equally abstract works, painted on small cigar box covers. He used the cigar box cover paintings as gifts to friends, apparently, and my feeling was that these were the true gems in the exhibition. They were the perfect epitome of "small is beautiful". AsSarah C. Bancroft, curator of one Diebenkorn museum exhibition observes in the catalogue essay, they “capture one’s attention from across the room and command an expanse of wall space disproportionate to their actual size.”

Richard Diebenkorn, Cigar Box Lid #4, 1976. Oil on wood, 8-3⁄8 x 7-1⁄8". The Grant Family Collection. © The Estate of Richard Diebenkorn.

Lyrical, free, certainly intense, but utterly lovely - they just sang. The more one explores the work Diebenkorn did in this small format, on cigar box lids, the more delightful and intimate the body of work becomes. Perhaps Diebenkorn felt liberated in this small format - he was not constrained by acres of canvas, nor the demands of gallery settings and collectors demanding impressive pieces. He could just create small delights that are intimate in scale, where his true sense of colour and the fitness of abstraction could be married to an acute sense of human celebration of life.

Richard Diebenkorn, Cigar Box Lid #6, oil on wood, 1979

As Diebenkorn himself observed, "The idea is to get everything right — it’s not just color or form or space or line — it’s everything all at once." He certainly achieved that for me in the cigar box lid paintings.

The three large rooms of the Royal Academy's Diebenkorn exhibition were distilled down to these three small pieces, for me. In a funny way, they helped me feel more reassured about my own art - my frequent choice of small format in metalpoint drawings was strangely validated. I was grateful to Diebenkorn for that, but most of all, for three paintings that still sing to me weeks after seeing them.

Tiny Images, Vast Scenes / March 30, 2015 by Jeannine Cook

Peder Balke is not the name of an artist that readily springs to mind, yet he is now considered the pre-eminent Norwegian artist of the 19th century. His landscapes and especially seascapes, highly unusual in their techniques, are now justly celebrated. I was lucky enough to see an exhibition of his paintings at the National Gallery, having seen a smaller one of his work in the same rooms four years ago. Balke lived from 1804-1887, started out as a full-time painter and then had to turn to other ways of earning his living. Nonetheless, he continued to paint, for his own pleasure, experimenting and using paints in ways that heralded modern expressionism. He travelled to the North Cape in Norway, an area of dramatic coastlines and radiantly strange light of the Arctic Circle. These scenes continued to influence him many years later. He did not always paint specific scenes, but used the moods and impressions of nature, often in almost abstract fashion, to convey the majesty, mystery, solitude and power of the natural world.

The Old Bridge, Oil on panel, Peder Balke

Seascape c. 1860, oil on canvas mounted on panel, Peder Balke

While the larger paintings on display in the National Gallery exhibition were impressive, especially the highly atmospheric ones of Northern scenes, done in the 1870s, the ones that fascinate me are the tiny ones. They pack a punch, almost in a visceral way.

Stormy Sea, oil on cardboard, Peder Balke (Image courtesy of Drammens Museum)

They are indeed small, mostly blacks and white, seascapes and some landscapes of glaciers or waterfalls, often almost abstracts. They are not small, however, when it comes to impact. Their effect is perhaps more powerful than that of many of the larger paintings he did. Perhaps my love of monochromatic works leads me to them, but to me, they are stunning in their big voices coming from very small rectangles of oil on cardboard or oil on board.

Norther Lights over Coastal Landscape, c. 1870, oil on panel, Peder Balke

Sun breaking through the Clouds at Vardohus, 1860-1870s, oil on panel, Private Collection

I wonder if other people find them as arresting as I do?

"A-ha" Moments in Exhibitions / March 28, 2015 by Jeannine Cook

Do you ever experience a wonderful moment when you see something in an exhibition, it suddenly resonates and explains some connection, or gives an unexpected insight into something else? I love those moments. I had a few such instances during my exhibition "orgy" in London recently. The first one came as I was marvelling at Goya's drawings in the superb "Goya: The Witches and Old Women Album" at The Courtauld Gallery. This exhibition was the first reconstruction of the dispersed 23 drawings from Francisco Goya's so-called Album D, "Witches and Old Women, produced during the wonderfully productive last decade of his life, together with other related drawings and prints.

The exhibition was riveting in every way - Goya's economy of drawing, his powers of depicting human emotions in their most raw and dramatic forms, his mordant commentaries on human foibles, all so simply done on small sheets of paper, in shades of ink - oh heavens! The scholarly work done that permits the reconstruction of this album, in a coherent and likely order of drawings, was also most fascinating and impressive.

Then, in the works accompanying the 23 drawings, there was a brush and brown ink drawing from Album B, Estas Brujas lo diran (Those Witches will tell).

Estas Brujas lo diran, Francisco Goya, brush & brown ink, (image courtesy of Prado Museum, Madrid)

I was so astonished. The line from Goya ran straight and true to Egon Schiele's Self Portraits. Goya's drawing is a haunting image of a naked old witch devouring snakes. Egon Schiele's Self-Portraits tell of equally disturbing solitary states of mind.

Self-Portrait, Egon Schiele, 1912 (Image courtesy of Leopold Museum)

Both artists are fluid in their lines, their vigorous treatment of wet and dry passages of drawing media. Did Schiele know of Goya's drawing in the Prado? Or was it just happenstance, the result of two gifted draughtsmen's states of mind?

Another "aha" moment for me that stands out in my memory was when I was looking at one of several unusual Claude Monet paintings in "Inventing Impressionism: Paul Durand-Ruel and the Modern Art Market" at the National Gallery. In the gallery showing works by Monet that Durand-Ruel had exhibited in a pioneering monographic show in 1883, , there was an arresting painting of two apple tarts or galettes on wicker platters, Les Galettes, painted in 1882 and in a private collection today.

Les Galettes, 1882, oil on canvas, Claude Monet, Private Collection

Its vigour and brio of treatment, its golds and yellows and close-cropped composition all take one straight to Vincent Van Gogh and his sunflowers or even a study of humble fishes, or bloaters. Did he see Monet's study of the Galettes - he most probably did, as he produced the first studies of cut sunflower heads some five years later.

Two Cut Sunflowers, Vincent Van Gogh, 1887, oil on canvas, (Image courtesy of Kunstmuseum, Bern)

Two Cut Sunflowers, oil on canvas, 1887. Vincent Van Gogh (Image courtesy of the Metropolitan Museum, New York)

Bloaters on a Piece of Yellow Paper, oil on canvas, 1889, Vincent Van Gogh

The third moment of fascination for me was in the same Impressionist exhibition, again a Monet painting done in 1875, The Coal Carriers. Monet had seen workers unloading coal for the Clichy gasworks from the train from Argenteuil to Paris, and painted this work partly from memory.

The Coal Carriers, oil on canvas. Claude Monet, c. 1875 (Image courtesy of the Musee d'Orsay, Paris)

The rhythmic placement of the men on the gangplanks, the silhouettes and dark colours somehow reminded me of many of the Japanese ukiyo-e prints, their rhythms and cropped views. Monet was an avid admirer of the new wave of Japanese prints coming in to Paris at that time.

Twilight Moon at Ryogoku Bridge from series Famous Views of the Eastern Capital, Utagawa Hiroshige

Utagawa Hiroshige: Twilight View of the Snow-clad Ryogoku Bridge

I love these moments when you can link up artists, influences and inspirations. They validate one's own endeavours as an artist as you study and view other artists' works, not to copy, but to use as pathways to grow and spread wings.

Delirium of Art Exhibitions / March 24, 2015 by Jeannine Cook

My problem with a visit to London is that it is never long enough! There is always another exhibition that beckons or a concert that demands to be heard. Nonetheless, there is a distinct delirium in the dizzying number of art exhibitions that I managed to see. There is always the vast diversity of size and type of exhibition from which to choose. The huge and fascinating "Inventing Impressionism: Paul Durand-Ruel and the Modern Art Market" at the National Gallery is currently one extreme. The other is a really interesting and diverse small exhibition, "Cotton to Gold: Extraordinary Collections of the Industrial North West".

This show, "Cotton to Gold" was a delight from beginning to end, not least because of where it is exhibited. Two Temple Place is a relatively new exhibition venue, along the Victoria Embankment, on the Thames, in front of the amazing Law Courts complex. A small but seriously over the top neo-Gothic building, it was built as an office for the first Viscount Astor, William Waldorf, in the 1890s. Lavish beyond belief in details and embellishments, it was a statement of power and wealth seldom equalled today. The building alone, now the home of The Bulldog Trust, is well worth a visit, quite apart from any exhibition put on during the winter months.

Two Temple Place, London. Main Hall-Office

"Cotton to Gold" was a show curated from the collections of three small museums in the British North West, collections that had been donated by very wealthy private citizens in the late 19th/early 20th century. These men had made their money in Lancashire's booming textile industry. Not only did they collect with a passion, but they were also serious local philanthropists, supporting social and cultural institutions.

Mosaic Panel with two sulphur-crested cockatoos attributed to Joseph Briggs, c. 1908, favrile glass in bronze tray, Briggs Collectiob, Haworth Art Gallery

The collections from which this show was curated ranged hugely. Early icons from Greece, Russia and the Eastern Mediterranean; Greek and Roman coins; superb Japanese ukiyo-e prints (pictures of the floating world); cuneiform tablets, manuscripts and books that traced the history of writing from 4000 years ago until the 20th century; carved ivories, J.M.W. Turner watercolours; John Everett Millais' life drawings; work from the largest public collection of Tiffany glass in Europe; even beetles and Peruvian funerary objects. It was a mind-stretching but really fascinating selection. There was something to interest everyone, in essence.

Book of Hours, 13th century, Paris, parchment, from Robert Edward Hart Collection, Blackburn Museum

Some of the early illuminated manuscripts collected by Robert Edward Hart were exquisite, while others from 15th or 18th century Persia fascinated by their elegance.

Detail, Book of Hours, early 16th century, possibly Rouen, parchment, Hart Collection, Blackburn Museum

Missal written by Johannes de Berlandia, c. 1400, Lombardy, parchment, Hart Collection, Blackburn Museum

Muhammad ibn Sulayman al-Jazul, Dala'il al-khayrut, (Guide to Goodness), 18th century, Persia/Iran. Robert Edward Hart Collection, Blackburn Museum

Nizanni Ganjavi, Khamsa (Quintet), late 15th century, Persia/Iran, Hart Collection, Blackburn Museum

Early printed books showed the straddle between printing and hand illustrations, then printing predominated completely. There were early copies of names that resonate - Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton, Montaigne or Swift. It made one stretch back into one's early education, a rather humbling affair!

This exhibition reminded me that an exhibition conceived on a very human scale and with such a diversity of content is often unusual today. Nonetheless, it was a delicious and memorable set of collections woven together for everyone's delight. The exhibition runs until 19th April, 2015 - well worth a saunter along the Victoria Embankment beneath the huge plane trees until you reach Two Temple Place.

The Symbolism of Words / March 8, 2015 by Jeannine Cook

When I first came to Mallorca, Spain, so many years ago, it was still during Franco's regime. The Balearic Islands were officially forbidden from speaking their own regional language, Mallorquin, and they certainly were not allowed to have any symbol like a regional hymn.

Slowly, slowly, over the years after Franco died and Spain became a democracy and part of the European Union, the Balearics regained their identifying characteristics. One of the most beautiful aspects, I have always thought, was the song that is now termed the hymn of Mallorca, La Balanguera.

The poem that gave rise to this hymn was written by Joan Alcover i Maspons, as a children's poem that combined whimsy, beauty and instructional philosophy for their life ahead. The poem was put to very lyrical music written by the Catalan composer, Amadeo Vives, and in 1996, the appropriate governmental body, the Consell de Mallorca, declared it to be the island's official hymn.

I have always known, of course, its Mallorcan or Spanish versions, loving it when I hear its melodies sung or even hummed. I recently found an English version translated by Dr. George Giri and published in the Majorcan Daily Bulletin.

Its words contain enough quiet wisdom that I think they bespeak a beauty worth considering.

The spinning wheel’s mysterious treadler Like a spider its subtle art Reels away her flaxen distaff Into yarn that holds our life Thus the spinner treadles On and on And spins her yarn.

Turning glances backward Sees the shadows of the past And the coming springtime Hides the seeds of things to come Knowing that the roots are growing And new roots are taking hold Thus the sinner treadles on and on And spins her yarn.

Hopes that hold traditions Weave a banner for the young Like a veil for future marriage Locks of silver and gold Which are spun into our youth But with age are nearly gone Thus the spinner treadles on and on And spins her yarn.

The Spanish version is just as lyrical in feel.

La Balanguera misteriosa (del francés "boulangère": panadera), como una araña de arte sutil, vacía que vacía la rueca, de nuestra vida saca el hilo. Como una parca que bien cavila, tejiendo la tela para el mañana. La Balanguera hila, hila, la Balanguera hilará.

Girando la vista hacia atrás vigila las sombras del abolengo, y de la nueva primavera sabe donde se esconde la semilla. Sabe que la cepa más trepa cuanto más profundo puede arraigar. La Balanguera hila, hila la Balanguera hilará.

De tradiciones y de esperanzas teje la bandera para la juventud como quien hace un velo de bodas con cabellos de oro y plata de la infancia que trepa de la vejez que se va La Balanguera hila, hila, la Balanguera hilará.

Hymns always reflect the optic of the region or nation that has them. The gentle yet fatalistic recognition of life's realities inherent in La Balanguera is very congruent with the sense of long history and solid self-identity with which this island faces the invasion of visitors and potential foreign residents over the years. I love this feeling of deep-seated culture that underpins Mallorcan life in so many instances, especially away from the tourist centres.

In essence, La Balanguera tells of the art of living. An interesting choice for a hymn.

Mind-stretching Art / February 28, 2015 by Jeannine Cook

I knew it was important to see. But the weather forecast was for snow, sleet, rain and high winds. And it was a long drive. Nonetheless, I went.

Where? Well, to one of the really important caves for prehistoric art in the Pyrenees in South France. To Niaux Cave, to be exact, in Niaux, south of Foix, the centre of the Ariège district.

In a way, the stage is well set for the interior of the two-kilometer long series of interlocking caves by the dramatic Corten steel building-cum-sculpture which marks today's entrance to the cave. Massimiliano Fuksas' architecture is somehow as wild and fanciful as any imaginary creature that could emerge from the caves.

After a long, wet tramp into the dramatic galleries of the cave, lit only by each person's individual torch issued to us, I began to have the sensation of inexorably walking backwards in time. First this was helped by all the graffiti on the walls, signatures of earlier visitors dating back as far as 1602.

Grotte de Niaux, early visitor's graffiti

Then came wall marking far earlier than that - red and black dots and lines, early man's geometrical marks.

We penetrated further and further into the ample, swooping roofed galleries that had been sculpted by water over millennia. It was quiet and mysterious. Only the sound of footsteps, the occasional splosh as someone stepped into one of the numerous large puddles, and the dancing beams of light catching the sparkle of minerals on the tumultuous ceilings.

Then suddenly our soft-spoken, knowledgeable young French guide stopped by a large flat rock. She asked us to turn off our flashlights and put them on the rock. Total silent darkness, as each of us wondered what happened next.

We were told to follow a stainless steel railing with our hands as the guide's light led us along. Another pause. Then she switched on a powerful white light, training it on the cave wall. Perhaps the children in the group expressed our emotions best - they simply gasped and shrieked, "Chouette!" - "Cool!".

Before us was the first complex grouping of black drawings - interlocking bison, horses,deer, even an exquisitely stippled ibex. Outlines, some use of the rock wall contours, a sureness of line and touch that was fresh, sophisticated and powerful, totally arresting. Animals depicted in silhouette, the bison with lances sometimes in their flanks, all represented with amazing accuracy and knowledge.

Grotte de Niaux, Salon Noir, superimposed bison and a horse

As we moved slowly round the Salon Noir, with the light shone brilliantly and briefly on each panel, followed by darkness once more, the "ceremony" of viewing became more and more an incantation, an altering of one's sense of the here and now. Evocations were made of the different interpretations of these works of art, buried so far in the depths of the earth, - religious, symbolic, shamanistic... We shall never know for certain, but the ensemble of animals, symbols and signs seems to represent views of worlds beyond the Magdalenians' daily lives, worlds where society's problems were thus resolved and in which harmony was restored.

Trying to enter the mind of those far-off Magdalenians is not easy. With such fluidity and knowledge of form, they were drawing these astonishing images on the rough walls of Niaux 14,000 years ago for the most part, or incising images on the floors of the caves. Nonetheless, I found another fact to be even more mind-bending. One series of bison drawings, on the other side of the Salon Noir to the main groups, is apparently dated to about 13,000 years ago. In other words, a thousand years later, other artists drew very similar groups of images, in the light of flickering flares.

Grotte de Niaux, Salon Noir, panel 6, bison and ibex

Something even more astounding was then softly explained by our guide. Apparently there is a very similar series of drawings in the Grotte Chauvet, miles away in the Ardèche region of France, that resembles those in Niaux. The one important fact that required endless verification and ultimate confirmation: the Grotte Chauvet drawings were done at least 14,000 years previously.

To think that our ancestors could echo the same images and approach to creating drawings of bison and other animals 14,000 years later, without any of our present means of recording images by paper, camera, scanner, whatever – it is almost beyond comprehension.

For me, this was the summum of mind-stretching dislocation about the power and importance of art, whatever its ultimate meaning for those who created it and viewed it in those quiet natural cathedrals beneath the earth.

I was more than glad I had made that snowy trip through the Pyrenees!

Elegant Simplicity / February 25, 2015 by Jeannine Cook

So often this happens in life: you go to see one place or thing, and what ends up being the special highlight is not at all the object of your visit. Fate intervenes! This happened to me again when I went to see the famed cathedral of Saint-Bertrand de Comminges in the French Pyrenees. Yes, the great structure, first raised in 1073 near the site of a Roman city Lugdunum Convenarum, is impressive. It soon changed from its Romanesque beginnings to being a far more elaborate Gothic pilgrimage centre in the late 13th century,, adopting the name of its famed bishop, Bertrand de Got, Bishop of Comminges. Its interior is dominated by an amazing choir and sixty-six stalls, a marvel of carved portraits and scenes in oak, all designed so that the pilgrims visiting St. Bertrand's tomb would not interfere with the daily offices of the canons attached to the cathedral. But another delight awaited me after I explored the cathedral and surrounding small hill town.

Saint-Just de Valcabrère, Haute Garonne, France

A short distance away, below the Roman ruins and St. Bertrand de Comminges itself is the hamlet of Valcabrère. Down a small plane tree-lined road through the fields lies a gem - Saint-Just de Valcabrère. A small Romanesque church, dominated by a sturdy but perfectly proportioned square bell tower crowned with a pyramid tiled roof, it is intimately linked to its cemetery by the simple portal through which one enters the 11th century church.

Golden stone, perfect Romanesque arches, a sense of quiet and peace, simplicity everywhere - I was mesmerised. I have always loved Romanesque architecture and have often meandered through France to visit churches of this era, but Saint-Just de Valcabrère is one of the loveliest examples I have seen. The entrance is so restrained in the carved details, St. Etienne who was martyred in Alcala de Henares, Spain, on 6th August, 304 AD, during the terrible persecutions imposed by Diocletian. He is accompanied by two Spanish martyred priests in the outer carvings.

St-Just de Valcabrere, entrance to church from cemetery

Saint-Just de Valcabrère, entrance, side column

Saint-Just de Valcabrère, entrance, side column capital

I was strangely lucky in the timing of my finding Saint-Just: as I arrived, I found all the little roads approaching the church jammed with cars and people walking to the entrance. The bell began slowly to toll - so I knew it had to be for a funeral. I joined the mourners and entered the totally packed church just as the priest was beginning the service. Again, perfectly proportioned golden arches, a sense of intimacy and timelessness, despite all the people. The altar in white marble is perhaps the most elaborate aspect of the interior, but it seemed totally appropriate. At the far end of the church from the altar, where normally one enters a church, there is an imposing organ, played beautifully when I was there.

Saint-Just de Valcabrère, interior, looking towards the organ at the back of the church

I did not linger too long as people were still arriving and every chair in the church was required. So I slipped away, amazed and grateful at my wonderful magical moments. It is not every day that one happens on such elegant, beautiful simplicity.

Rediscovering Charlotte Salomon / February 22, 2015 by Jeannine Cook

One of the wonderful things about spending time at an artist residency is being able to alternate between trying to create art and reading about other artists. It is a luxury to do so, and I am savouring it at a beautiful and peaceful retreat nestled in the foothills of the French Pyrenees, Bordeneuve, in Betchat, Ariège. I am a firm believer in the eddying delights of chance, especially when it comes to happening upon books. Once again, Lady Luck led me to a book, "Charlotte" by David Foenkinos, published last year by Gallimard and which won the 2014 Prix Renaudot and Prix Goncourt des Lycéens.

It is a fictionalised account of the life of Charlotte Salomon, the young German Jewish artist who fled to France during World War II and there was finally killed in Auschwitz in 1943. Written in verse, it is an arresting account of the intertwining of the author's fascination for this artist with the account of her young life.

Self-Portrait, Charlotte Salomon, gouache, (image courtesy of the Charlotte Salomon Foundation, National Jewish Museum, Amsterdam)

Life? or Theatre?, Charlotte Salomon, 1940-42, gouache,(Image courtesy of the Charlotte Salomon Foundation, Jewish Arts Museum, Amsterdam)

What did young girls do during the War? Charlotte Salomon, gouache, (image courtesy of the Charlotte Salomon Foundation, National Jewish Museum, Amsterdam)

I knew of Charlotte Salomon and her haunting, passionate paintings, but this book made me go back and look more closely at images of her work. As the Nazis tightened their noose on the Jews, life - everyday, intellectual, professional and cultural - became increasingly impossible, but Charlotte's prominent physician father and diva singer step-mother refused to leave Berlin. So Charlotte eventually took refuge in art, her passion and her solace.

Life? or Theatre?, Charlotte Salomon, gouache, (image courtesy of the Charlotte Salomon Foundation, National Jewish Museum, Amsterdam)

From there, her life grew more complex, more dangerous. Once she had fled to France, leaving behind her family and a man with whom she had fallen passionately in love, she shut herself up in a hotel room in Villefranche for two years. There she created a vast body of work autobiographical in nature, almost operatic in form, with dialogue, images, commentary, musical cues, all vivid in colour and content. Pregnant and in mortal danger, she eventually entrusted her art to her physician, knowing that she only had a short time to live. She gave him a simple, stark explanation, "This is my whole life".

Kristallnacht, Charlotte Salomon, gouache, (image courtesy of the Charlotte Salomon Foundation, National Jewish Museum, Amsterdam)

Eventually in 1961, her work, Life? or Theatre?: A Play with Music, was exhibited for the first time. The exhibit and accompanying catalogue spread the word about her inventive, passionate art. Now there is a new surge of interest after David Foenkinos' book has been published. I am glad I have been reminded of this courageous, highly original and driven artist who only lived twenty-six years.

Technical Artistry / February 2, 2015 by Jeannine Cook

PAINTING-15-19c-ANGUISSOLA-Sofonisba_SelfPortrait_detail_hands-1561.jpg

As I sat entranced, listening to a wonderful performance of Beethoven's Piano Concerto No. 3 in C minor, I began to think about the parallels between a musician's dexterity of hand and that of a visual artist drawing or painting. Rosa Torres Pardo, the young pianist, was playing with the Baleares Symphony Orchestra. Slender and unaffected, she had an amazing power and delicacy of touch on the keyboard. Her command of the keys was sure and exquisitely balanced, her fingers performing a wonderful ballet up and down the long stretch of keys.

Meanwhile, the Orchestra's violinists, violoncellos, brass and percussionists all demonstrated their skill of hands and arms in similar fashion. Phillippe Bender was conducting and his hands were part of this same fascination I was experiencing as I found the parallels with visual artists.

When you draw in silver or goldpoint, for example, you need to have an exactness, a sensitivity of touch, an understanding of how to move your hand as you make the marks to obtain the desired result. Just like striking a piano key in a certain fashion to obtain the desired sound, or drawing your bow across a violin.

Painting, in oils, acrylics, watercolours – the brush strokes or palette knife's motion all make different effects and renderings on paper or canvas. It is all in the motion of the arm and use of the fingers - the touch, in essence.

Parshat-Veetchanan- Silverpoint Drawing, Sherry-Camhy

Carol Prusa drawing her Dome sprhere in acrylic, silverpoint, silver leaf (image courtesy of the artist)

Finding unity in our creative endeavours always delights me. Every working artist celebrates the passion that inspires and moves him or her. With our arms, hands and fingers as universal tools in these creations, developing dexterity and command of technical vocabularies is an ever-important part of being an artist. No wonder every musician, ballet dancer, visual artist and conductor practices and practices to improve as an artist.