Marvelous work, nicely presented. I’ve dabbled, er, meddled, um, futzed around with — at any rate, I’ve bluffed and hamfisted my way to a check by doing decorative painting. It’s not the same sort of work as in the video, mind you, but it requires a similar appetite for tedium. I have such an appetite for certain kinds of interesting tedium that it’s crowded out all the regular tedium from my life that regular people enjoy. The Intertunnel is a wonderful and terrible thing for people like me. It’s full of stuff like this video. Durn inneresting.
It has to take the place of leisure. If you add paying attention to such things to regular leisure, there’s no productive time left in your life. Occasionally, I try accurately describing my life to an acquaintance, because they’ve asked nicely enough, enough times, and a look comes over their face that is equal admixture of: You’re nuts, and: You must be fibbing. When I see that look, I always regret telling the truth, and go back to small talk. I’m on something along the lines of three decades now of relatives of all shapes and sizes arriving at my house and wondering aloud, in a horrified tone: What do you mean there’s no TV? Terror-stricken, they are. Me, I figure you must think you’re going to live to be ten thousand years old if you watch an episode of 2 Broke Girls or a Jacksonville/ Tampa Bay game.
I wish I could live to be ten thousand years old, so I could try my hand at all this wonderful, tedious stuff. Life’s short, so you look at it in wonder and affection, and then move on. That Evangeline Table’s not going to sand itself, you know.
Mizz E visits and comments here regularly. She’s an educator. She’s a generous contributor to the boys’ music fund for which I am grateful. She has a very sunny avatar picture. Brightens my day to see it.
She’s got a Tumblr page going. I’ve added it to my moribund and mostly obsolete blogroll. Look for it under Tail Feathers.
It’s ottist stuff, mostly. It’s from people I’m not familiar with much. Lends an air of discovery to it. I like looking at John Singer Sargent pitchas as much as the next guy — more, is more likely — but I’d like to see something different from time to time. But not bad. Some people just have a knack for curating Intertunnel collections. They’re coherent and interesting. I’m generally only one or the other of those things at a time, so I like to see them melded once in a while.
Most decorative painting is dreadful. Bad ideas, inexpertly done. I’d say amateurishly done, but of course the word “amateur” is derived from the Latin word for love. To do something for love is supposed to transcend the motive of filthy lucre. Everyone just loves making a mess to my eye. I stand by my assertion that there are few things in this world more dangerous than a gallon of metallic paint in the hands of a housewife. Only a professional could do worse, because they can do as bad a job faster.
“Real”artists try their hand at murals and so forth to keep themselves in absinthe and Gauloises between “real” commissions. They hate the customers and their houses and their lives and their own lives and paint really small things all over a really big area. It’s not portrait painting, only bigger, so they fail miserably and expensively. Even if it was portrait painting, most “real” artists are totally flummoxed by any request to paint anything that’s a recognizable representation of life. They were absent that one day at college when that one teacher mentioned it, derisively, before returning to women with their nose to the left of their three eyes.
But every once in a while, someone knows what they are doing, and finds someone that knows how to pay them, and you get extraordinary results. Graham Rust is like that. Of course it took him fifteen years or so to finish Ragley Hall, pictured in the video. I had no idea England has a union for wall artists. Don’t kill the job! is on their coat of arms, I imagine.
Sorry about the scans; don’t have a good scanner available. At least you can clicky-pop it and look at it larger. It’s not that “bright” in real life. I think I referred to Decorating Magic by John Sutcliffefor the sandstone wall motif. The book’s out of print but you can get a used one for cheap. It’s not really a how-to book as much as an overview of possibilities. It’s 20 years old, but not much looks stupid in it. 20-month-old design magazines usually look insane. Good work doesn’t get painted over every couple years. Fads come and go. I told you to stay away from cocoa brown and powder blue, but did you listen?
I’ve had lots of interesting jobs in my life. I’ve had lots of very uninteresting jobs, too, but they always seemed to turn interesting somehow. There’s a lesson in there somewhere, but I’m unlikely to figure it out now.
I used to paint. I’ve painted lots of things. Plain things. Ornate things. Big things. Little things. Important things. A long, long time ago when I was a young man I was offered a job by a man I hardly knew for a project that was just beginning. He said he was painting the White House. There was something about the offer that told me that all the “interesting” was on the cover of the book, as it were, but all the pages were blank. It sounded exciting but turns out boring. I am not generally wise, but I turned it down, and had a glint of recognition a few years ago, when I read an obscure notice in some publication that the job was completed. “My mind is kind,” my older brother says often, meaning we often forget that which is unimportant, but I think 6 presidential terms had gone by in the interim. I’d had 4 or 5 careers in the interim.
There is a reaction, somewhat common at the Post Office, which is featured on the news from time to time, that inflicts people who seek a sinecure and then are faced with endless quotidian diet of the same damn thing. Be careful what you wish for.
Anyway, I used to paint on the walls. There’s a long and proud tradition of painting on the walls, and I was allowed to be included in that tradition, even if it had a little less Michaelangelo to it than maybe it should have.
Trompe l’Oeil. Fool the eye, it’s called. There’s a fellow named Graham Rust who’s published a few books about it recently, and is very good at it. If I had dedicated my entire life to it, or at least as much of my life as the average White House painting job lasts, I’d probably be about half as good at it as he. I dabbled. It was fun.
It’s hard to explain fool the eye. It’s like a joke; if the audience doesn’t laugh, it’s pointless to explain it. It’s not a mural exactly, it’s more like an illusion of depth or space or material. The lines between all these various kinds of painting on the wall are fuzzy. It falls in and out of favor, but goes all the way back to a cave in Spain. Any Steely Dan fan knows that. Out of favor or not, it’s not going away any time soon. Upon reflection, it’s not the only thing I have in common with stone age men.
The picture above is a powder room in a fairly elaborate sort of Gothic revival house. The owners of the house were the nicest people I’ve ever had as customers. Everyone who knows them would give them a kidney, but they don’t need any. They wanted interesting things to look at in their home, and I hope they’re still interested in it after all these years.
I jabber all the time. But like many who talk too much, I don’t reveal much, really. The words are for you; my thoughts are my own. But I’m going to explain why I did what I did in that room for the first time, ever, although it’s been over ten years since I did it.
People would rely on me for advice, guidance towards what was possible as much as what was desirable. And when I was smart, sometimes I’d offer advice that was pointed towards the ultimate benefit of the end user, without them really understanding it. That’s risky — if you fail, you can’t go back and explain why you did what you did.
There was this magnificent house. You’d walk in the front doors, which were massive mahogany items, and enter an big hexagonal foyer, with a marble parquet disc in the center of the floor copied from a portion of the floor at St. Mark’s in Venice. Two and a half stories up there was a mural of the sky. But the architect was trying too hard to impress, and forgot his real job. The very first thing you noticed in that house, the thing that caught your eye first and foremost — was a toilet in the powder room off this foyer.
Trailer park meets mansion. The powder room was very small, too, but the ceiling was high, as the first floor rooms had high ceilings. It was like an elevator shaft with a crapper in it. As the picture demonstrates, it’s hard to get far enough away from anything in that room to even get a picture of it.
I painted all that stuff on the walls and ceilings with the help of my brothers, and the owner of the house later told me that she couldn’t keep anyone out of that room. Her children were instructed to use one of the other numerous bathrooms in the house, but they’d sneak in there to look at the stuff on the walls, sometimes even when they didn’t need to use the toilet.
The owner was pleasant enough to tell me that the little powder room was the most memorable thing in the house to a visitor. I was pleasant enought to refrain from telling her that it was even more memorable, in a different way, before I started.
I painted this on the wall a long time ago for my first son, who dearly loved to go to the 4th of July fireworks. For such a small town, they were quite elaborate. Then the town began getting strange about them. They tried to hold the fireworks on any day except July 4th, because they cared nothing for the meaning of the holiday, only their fireworks display. They deliberately timed it one year to avoid having anyone from outside of town see them. We stopped going. Stopped living there, too.
Anyway, his bed faced the fireworks, and in the wan light of the nightlight, they seemed to glow a little. I’d never painted anything with a monochrome underpainting with colored glaze before. If you’re unfamiliar with painting, you paint a more or less black and white painting first, and then layer washes of transparent color over it. It’s all acrylic, so the work goes fast. I think I did it over a weekend.
It’s just a workmanlike thing. I had sketches to banish the rest of the walls with autumn trees with rope swings, and a sailboat heeling in the breeze, and other assorted tripe. The band of wall above a high wainscot makes a nice, manageable frieze for such things. I never got around to it.
I find I gain a lot of information from mundane sources. Don’t get me wrong; there isn’t much useful information in almost any instructional material anymore. They either are bluffing their way through topics they know little about, or they mete it out with an eyedropper to make the most money. Don’t kill the job, as a man leaning on a shovel looking at someone else in a hole might say. But if you have a hundred bad How-To books, you can figure out how to do anything, if you can deduce which one percent of what you’re reading isn’t worthless.
Michelangelo said sculpting was easy. You just cut away the parts of the block that don’t look like David. I just left the colors on the palette that didn’t look like a bonfire and fireworks.
Tag: painting
sippicancottage
A Man Who Has Nothing In Particular To Recommend Him Discusses All Sorts of Subjects at Random as Though He Knew Everything.
for the sandstone wall motif. The book’s out of print but you can get a used one for cheap. It’s not really a how-to book as much as an overview of possibilities. It’s 20 years old, but not much looks stupid in it. 20-month-old design magazines usually look insane. Good work doesn’t get painted over every couple years. Fads come and go. I told you to stay away from cocoa brown and powder blue, but did you listen?
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