Clear Seeing Place

by Brian Rutenberg

  Breaking Brushes

  An artist told me years ago that I treated my work like old shoes, which was offensive to my shoes. My paintings aren’t precious artifacts but direct extensions of my studio environment, which is an active, sloppy workspace; I am orderly at home but a filthy pig at work. Except for a few fine sables, I never clean my brushes but plunge them into buckets of warm water and green Palmolive to seal them and keep the bristles soft. When I need one, it is plucked from the soapy water, wiped off with an old T-shirt, and dunked in a bucket of clean paint thinner. Some of my brushes are thirty-five years old; however, when I buy a new one, I immediately snap it in half. Being a brush fetishist reeks of painting as ceremony, conjuring an image of an artiste wearing a beret and holding a palette with one eyebrow raised. A precious tool makes precious marks. A broken brush is no longer a magic wand or a conductor’s baton but a blunt, compact stub that puts my gigantic hand close to the battlefield. Painting is messy. My tools are clumsy. I disrespect my materials out of respect for my viewer.

  Broken brushes. 2016.

  The best memory is nothing compared to a good brush.

  —Old Chinese proverb

  Edges

  I am always seeking ways to blur the interface between the real world and the painted world. Is the image contained within the edges or does it expand beyond? From 1987 to 1995, my way of dealing with the edge was to eliminate it, so I stuffed my socks and shirts between the canvas and the wooden stretcher bar, rounding the sides of the painting like soft shoulders. I wore only a blue bathrobe for days because all of my clothes were crammed into paintings. Having the image curve around the side and onto the back mimicked peripheral vision because there was no definitive ending. Curving the image also lent the paintings a sculptural presence; some collectors even displayed them freestanding on pedestals.

  To further intensify their physicality, I used four-inch-thick stretcher bars and stabbed holes through the canvas with a vicious thirty-year-old ice pick that could take you all the way down to Chinatown. Piercing holes released aggression and forced reality and fiction to collide so fiercely that the threads of the canvas, the stretcher bar, and sometimes even the wall were exposed. Painting is both a lie and a thing; stabbing intensifies both. I don’t puncture my canvases anymore, but I still break every brush I own and treat my paintings like old shoes, not for violence but the promise of it.

  Catawba, 1991, 15 x 20 x 3 inches, oil on linen.

  One of my early stuffed paintings.

  To Your Health

  Part of our responsibility as painters is making healthful decisions so that we can devote our entire lives to this thing. I have severe obstructive apnea, a sleep disorder in which the soft tissue in the back of my throat collapses, causing me to stop breathing, a problem that my wife diagnosed when we were still dating. My body has to produce a shock of adrenaline to wake me up to breathe, which puts a strain on my heart, not to mention other lovely side effects like high blood pressure, fatigue, memory loss, and even depression. I was sent to Mount Sinai Hospital for a sleep study and now for the rest of my life I have have to wear a continuous positive airway pressure mask when I sleep. A CPAP is basically a fat person’s breathing machine that opens my airway and lets me get the deep, restorative sleep I need to function and paint.

  Along with proper sleep, I keep my body limber because painting is a physical activity. Every morning in my studio, I perform a series of stretches developed during my years as a drummer. Here is my routine: remove shoes and socks, sit down in a hard chair, and cross one leg over the other to form a T. Lean forward slowly to stretch the thighs. Repeat with the other leg. Stand up and bow forward, trying not to bend the knees, and slip your hands under your feet, if possible. Hold for one minute. Come back to a standing position. Reach toward the ceiling and wiggle fingers vigorously while keeping shoulders down. Do ten slow windmills with each arm. Sit down and vigorously slap the bottoms of your bare feet. Start painting.

  Fresh air is important in any studio, but especially when using solvents and varnishes. I keep my windows open most of the year and use an exhaust fan in winter. Paint rags should be disposed of on a regular basis, and solvent containers should be kept sealed. You should also wear a dust mask when sanding and latex gloves when painting; the gloves can be found at any pharmacy in the bandage and gauze section.

  Since I wipe brushes on my clothing, I buy new black T-shirts in bulk; I go through at least three shirts per week. For pants, I wear loose nylon basketball shorts. Since painters are on their feet constantly, attention should also be paid to the lower extremities. My surgeon father-in-law turned me on to compression stockings, which are knee-length, tight-fitting socks that keep my feet from swelling. Comfortable footwear is important too. I wear size fourteen rubber Crocs, which are easy to slip on and off and repel the slop that flies around as I work.

  Finally, a bottle of hand moisturizer and a nail file are always on my desk because my mother said that people notice your hands first; decades of nail biting have left me with knobby, Shrek fingers. Fresh drinking water and graham crackers are my snacks of choice, and, in an effort to lose weight, I installed a tropical juice bar in my studio, complete with a blender, bowls of fruit, and a small tiki totem. Every day at noon, I put ice, almond milk, a pint of blackberries, a pint of blueberries, a banana, and walnuts in the blender, and that is my lunch. Although I am grossly over-served at steakhouses, my diet is fairly healthful because the best way to deal with your critics is to outlive them.

  Sleep tight. 2016.

  Playing

  All painters are connected through their materials. Regardless of ideology, political orientation, subject matter, or geography, we all apply skins of color to a flat surface with old tools. I’m not a Luddite. I embrace technology but also recognize how low-tech my job is: there are no algorithms or data mining. Clearing my cookies means eating a sleeve of Oreos, and storage and retrieval is wiping an image away and repainting it.

  There is nothing more ancient and intimate than making a mark with your hand to show another human being. It says, “Hey, I love you, and I made this for you to see.” Mark making instantly connects the mind to the hand, and the more complex the mind, the greater the need for the simplicity of play. Italian Renaissance drawings may appear academic and precise. However, they were highly playful. As paper production expanded in the fifteenth century, artists were encouraged to draw with greater frequency, which fostered investigation without preciousness. Drawings were not exclusively preparations for paintings but ends in themselves. For example, Fra Bartolomeo posed small wooden dolls to render the figures in his studies for paintings; Perugino cut, pasted, and gridded his drawings to transfer them into larger compositions. Painters used a process called “pouncing” in which tiny holes were scored along the lines of a drawing with a stylus, which was then patted with black or white chalk dust in a muslin bag. The dust penetrated the holes and left a faint tracing of the original image on the support (panel, plaster wall, etc.) when the paper was removed.

  I am fascinated by the tools of work, especially those designed for a specific purpose, inventions so streamlined that they can’t be used for anything else, like shoehorns, ice cream scoops, or the food carts that flight attendants roll down the aisles. I bought a used cart to have in my studio because it was the perfect height for my palettes and had plenty of secret compartments for candy. For a painter, everything is a tool for work. Seasoned artists don’t only buy their supplies from art stores, but also from bakery supply shops, auto stores, pet stores, medical-supply dealers, sex shops, and hardware stores. If you can hold it, you can paint with it.

  Painters also modify existing tools for their specific needs. Jackson Pollock used the nonbristle end of a brush as a dripping stick, Brice Marden extends his brushes with long dowels and applies ink with tree branches, Janine Antoni paints with her hair; Kazuo Shiraga used his feet; and Jules Olitski used squeegees and brooms to push pigment around. My painting
table is a buffet of unconventional materials for applying paint, such as the round side of lightbulbs, cardboard boxes, old credit cards, a shovel, women’s wigs, shoes, even the flat side of a fish tank because it was the right size. All that matters is the truth of the mark. An artist’s job is to monkey with stuff. We don’t seek solutions, but problems. We play because we can.

  I have been painting for many weeks—Sea, Fish, and the morning redness. Someday perhaps one paper will miraculously bloom before my eyes . . . much must transpire within myself first . . . for painting is no longer painting, but is increasingly the concentrated moments of fleeting clarity. These moments must be sustained and permeate my whole being, for I find that one must be what he seeks to utter—for inevitably one utters what he is.

  —Morris Graves

  Titles

  My titles come from reading poetry. I choose words that don’t influence the viewer but broaden their experience, such as Buckle or Clover. My titles may also refer to a dominant tonality, such as Silver Favorites and Hemlock Lake, or reflect my Southern origins as in Saltwater and Camellia.

  Many painters claim that a title limits the viewer and undermines the purity of the image. I disagree. The viewer needs limits, and no image is pure. Untitled suggests that the painting can be about anything, which is too democratic. Art is not a democracy but a dictatorship. A painter must take a clear, personal stance without telling the viewer what to see, only how to see it. Painting is open ended as long as the painter keeps one foot on the viewer’s throat at all times.

  Along with titles, a painter should sign and date their work to signal that it’s finished and ready for exhibition. No signature assumes that people, now and in the future, will know the artist. I was taught to sign the back of the canvas because any writing on the front constitutes an image. Unless it is a monochromatic painting, I recommend signing both sides so people can instantly identify your work if they see it again. It will also help future dealers, collectors, and conservators in case authentication is required. On the reverse, I use black charcoal to write my full name, under which I put the title, date, and the initials NYC. Then I spray it with unscented Aqua Net, an inexpensive fixative. Use soft charcoal and don’t press too hard; you can see the faint raised imprint of my signature in a large painting of mine hanging in a museum if you know where to look. On the front lower right corner I paint a small BR, which is an homage to the Austrian artist Oscar Kokoshka, who signed his paintings OK. Some painters, such as Albrecht Dürer, Johannes Vermeer, Henri Rousseau, and Maxfield Parrish, intentionally drew attention to their signatures. Arthur Dove usually signed the bottom center and Gustav Courbet painted his name in bright vermillion, which screams, “I am alive. I painted this.”

  Artists have always been interested in the relationship between language and image, however many contemporary paintings rely on language (descriptions, theories, positions) to exist, often at the expense of intimacy and touch. But language, especially descriptive language, requires a consensus, and the last thing painting needs is a consensus. Every sentence contains a noun and a verb. Changing the order of the words alters the meaning, but it is still a sentence; as George Carlin said, “You can prick your finger, just don’t finger your prick.” If I say, “a red wheelbarrow,” then you and I form an agreement about the meaning of those words. Language can be translated because it is connected to other known languages, whereas painting is connected only to the painter. Painting differs from language in that it’s the physical presentation of its subject, like juggling. A juggler doesn’t describe what’s happening, because the content is automatically built into the process. All that’s required is our full presence in an experience that compresses time and insists we see the world differently for a moment.

  Routines

  Routines are important to artists because they provide a layer of protection from the randomness of daily life. My bedroom closet is full of Levi’s button-fly jeans, a few dozen black Banana Republic T-shirts, a black belt, black Nike ankle socks, and several pairs of black shoes. I never have to think about what to wear. My morning routine is ironclad. I walk my kids to school at 8:16 a.m. and then hit the gym for twenty-five minutes before meeting my buddies for oatmeal and coffee. Diner culture is alive and well in New York. Every morning, I see the same people: opera stars, actors, writers, painters, and travelers. Despite our diverse backgrounds, we have two things in common: we have mornings free and seem to be hungry at the same time.

  Two of my favorite words in the English language, besides “sheet cake,” are “communal table.” I have an inner ring of close friends and a large outer ring of acquaintances whom I see on social occasions, but a diner provides that all-important middle layer—not exactly close friends, but friendly faces.

  I get to the studio by ten, stretch, and spend the first hour on paperwork and correspondence. I rarely employ assistants but do everything myself. One of the reasons that I became a painter is because I’m a terrible collaborator; as the adage goes, “A camel is a horse designed by a committee.” Lunch is at noon. When a fruit smoothie won’t satisfy my hunger, I order food delivered to my studio—usually the same meal for several years until I burn out and never eat it again. I ate so much brick-oven pizza from one joint on Sixth Avenue that they asked if they could put my face on their T-shirts. I never ate there again. My favorite foods to order are Indian and Thai. The delivery guys all know me by name and love to comment on paintings in progress.

  My one-thousand-square-foot studio is in a tenstory former printing building in the flower district. It has fifteen-foot-high ceilings and giant north-facing windows under which sits my desk with two computer monitors, a lamp, and piles of paperwork. I prefer consistent light to natural light for painting. I use hundred- watt flood bulbs because I want the pictures to look like they will in a gallery. Music is always playing, and my tastes range from chamber music (Joseph Haydn, Béla Bartók, Gustav Mahler, Luigi Boccherini),

  1980s heavy metal (Judas Priest), and jazz (Modern Jazz Quartet, Shirley Horn, and Ben Webster) to the truck-driving songs of artists like Buck Owens or Red Simpson. I also listen to local talk radio (Brian Lehrer and Leonard Lopate), audiobooks, and a steady diet of podcasts, especially Penn Jillette’s Sunday School, Gilbert Gottfried’s Amazing Colossal Podcast, Norm McDonald Live, Here’s the Thing with Alec Baldwin, and Marc Maron’s WTF. I am also obsessed with archived interviews of Tiny Tim on The Howard Stern Show from the 1990s. Those conversations are pure poetry. Herbert Khaury (Tiny Tim) was incapable of lying, painfully polite, and didn’t have a cynical bone in his body. He wore no armor and had no filter. I like that.

  Regardless of whether it’s Bryan Ferry or Terry Gross, sound is just electronic wallpaper that provides a meter that I unconsciously tap into. Having played drums for twenty years, I see and apply color percussively. Painting is rhythm made visible.

  Two Common Mistakes

  I meet a lot of young and less-experienced painters, and the two most common mistakes they make are not leaving the brushstroke alone and harboring a fear of using thick paint. They put down a mark and monkey with it, killing it dead. Make a brushstroke, leave it alone, clasp your fingers behind your ass, and take five steps backward.

  Furthermore, don’t be stingy with paint. Better to squeeze out large globs of fewer colors than peck around a palette of too many choices. Mix right on the canvas. Buy cheap student-grade paint if you have to, but use fistfuls of it.

  Send my kids to college or buy paint? I bought paint. 2016.

  Let It Kill You

  The only way to be a painter is to make paintings, and the only way to make paintings is not to do other stuff. With the exception of day jobs, distractions must be kept to a minimum, which means spending inordinate amounts of time alone. Most artists are natural loners, but loneliness is not the same as alienation, which implies melancholy. I was a lonely kid. To encourage more social interaction, my mother made me a fake ID on my sixteenth birthday so I could go out drinki
ng with friends. She meticulously hand-painted a large-scale South Carolina driver’s license on cardboard with a square window cut out of the corner. On our back porch, I held the cardboard close to my chest and positioned my smiling face in the window while she photographed it with her Kodak. She printed and laminated the ID, but the first time I tried to use it, the bartender cut it in half. I’ve never smoked or tried recreational drugs in my life and didn’t touch alcohol until age thirty, although I can drink like an Irish poet now. I didn’t keep steady girlfriends in high school or college and was still a virgin when my friends were starting families. My friends said I was missing out, and they were right, but being an artist isn’t a choice.