Quixotic

Book Launch

Embrace the mess! So, let the explanation unfold as to where I've been this last year—how time soars— fast at work completing my debut novel! Never a Cloud . . .  stay tuned!

An interview with the Belgian artist Pierre Bergian

"I am persuaded that we are unconsciously very fascinated by interiors of buildings because these are the places in which we spend the largest part of our lives."

—Pierre Bergian

In the studio of artist Pierre Bergian of Ghent, Belgium. Contact the following galleries to reach Pierre: Purdy Hicks, London; Octavia Art Gallery, New Orleans; Gerald Bland, New York, and Emily Eerdmans of Eerdmans Gallery, New York.

"Pierre Bergian: Portraits of Rooms" opens at Eerdmans gallery, New York, April 6 — May 28, 2021.

 

Pierre and I "met" on Instagram. For all the trappings and annoyances delivered by social media, I am grateful for the friends I may otherwise never have met, very grateful indeed. Pierre was born in Bruges, 1965, and studied art history and archeology at the University of Ghent, though he has always been interested in architecture. His work is part of the permanent collection of The British Museum. His solo exhibits include: Purdy Hicks Gallery, London; Octavia Art Gallery, New Orleans; Gallerie Laurent de Puybaudet, Paris; Gerald Bland, New York; Gallerie Josine Bokhoven, Amsterdam. His work draws the praise of design-world-A-listers like Charlotte Moss, and Alex Papachristidis. 

1. Tell me something about the upcoming exhibition, Pierre, at Eerdmans, New York, before we delve into your life.

These are historical portraits, mostly of fashion designers' and decorators' homes. I love modern design, but the rich interiors of all these names, are so imaginative. What a world to discover! Lots of modern design is annoying compared to the world of Channel, Duquette, Castaing, Fowler, Letan, Lagerfeld, YSL, Baldwin, Elsie de Wolfe, Albert Hadley, Sister Parish... working with their interiors to develop my drawings and paintings, is so inspiring. I discover a quite unusual world. Of course these works are different from my empty interiors ... While painting them I feel more like a pianist playing Chopin or Liszt, playing the compositions of someone else. But it is very interesting for me and opens my mind and style!

2. How did the metaphysical sense of an empty room become the subject of your art and how has your childhood influenced your art?

When I was a child, I loved to discover old, abandoned houses in Bruges, Lille, and Ghent. They were mostly empty and rather dark, without artificial light. I was drawn to them. Similarly, I am very fond of the Italian metaphysical paintings of the twentieth century, particularly the way in which walls, windows, floors, and furniture communicate with natural light. Being intetersed in light is not exceptional for a painter. I must specify, though, that I never paint artificial light. I love some sunshine coming in a room, with a lot of shadow. I also like the light of the winter sun, entering very deeply, and moonlight, especially in old houses, when it reflects on the walls, floors, and ceilings. Light in a building can be so delicate.

Also when I was a child, my family and I visited museums, artists' studios, and collectors' interiors. I was, and still am, captivated by rooms filled with an artistic mess, with paintings piled up against the wall. However, emptiness holds me, too. I don't know why, but I prefer interiors or landscapes without people. In this way, my paintings are a little similar to still life. While there are no people, the spaces are not really empty, but are more or less abandoned, giving them a slightly surrealistic touch. My paintings are meant to be poetic.; I am not interested in any conceptual meaning, but am intrigued by the interiors of buildings because these are the places in which we spend the largest part of our lives.   

I have an interest in the Italian Giorgio de Chirico, master of stillness, and his explanation of the metaphysical element in his paintings. My work is more northern, nearer to Hammershoi, and my Belgian predecessor Magritte, with similar references to "possibility."  

3. What is your process when composing a painting?

Before I begin painting, I often make sketches of interiors. Some of these are quite "realistic," while others are more or less compilations of what I've seen, perhaps impressions of reality. While painting or sketching, I imagine walking through spaces, opening windows, doors, and passages, and then closing others so as to create another perspective, light, or atmosphere. Sometimes this can be seen on the paintings, where underlying layers of paint, or even interiors, might be visible. I use fragments of older paintings in new rooms, often as a mirror, and this makes the work more like an archeological object that contains layers of different periods. Thus, my paintings are in some way a meeting of history, archeology, and architecture.

"Bergian's goal of creating atmosphere instead of a mirror image of reality makes him a visual poet of the interior." 

—Frances Borzello

4. Which influences and artists have significantly impacted your work? 

As a collector I meet so many different people, everywhere, I know tile/ ceramic collectors from NY and London to Amsterdam. So I do travel quite a lot and meet lots of people with amazing collections and houses. For we collectors, doors open quite easily. During one of my travels I was in the marvelous city of Milan, where I walked into a small gallery where I discovered the fascinating work of William Congdon!! (* the late American Abstract Expressionist painter William Congdon is a relative of mine)

There is still something interesting to know about Belgium. The country as you know is in the middle of Europe. As we speak Dutch and French we feel as at home in the northern and the southern reaches of Europe.That places the Belgian in a comfortable and special relationship. We easily travel from Paris to Amsterdam and have friends everywhere. The tiles that I discovered in Holland, along with but not limited to the ceramics of Delft, and the famous Dutch painters of the seventeenth century, have inspired my interiors!



My continued discoveries in London's museums influence my art. I love the UK! Not only because of my amiable working relationship with my gallery there, Purdy Hicks, but also because of the wealth of British art. I love the 19th and 20th century. A great many painters from England, Scotland, and Wales are unknown on the Continent and forgotten in lots of art books. London was where I first saw paintings of the Danish Vilhelm Hammershoi. I discovered him quite late, and recognize in his work a similar fascination for emptiness and natural light and darkness. There are so many artists of the 19th and the 20th century that would be rediscovered, both men and women! Art historian Frances Borzello has written on this topic, and also, the women who have painted in an unusual and delicate style, then were neglected by history.  

I admire the work of the 17th century Delft artist de Hooch, with layers of color, suggestive strokes, as a parallel to the emotion of history. 

Also that of the German romantic, Casper David Friedrich, whose window landscapes are a metaphor for the spiritual realm which lies beyond the room.

5. I remember when we first spoke, you were about to break onto the New Orleans art scene, June 2020, and now again, in New York, what has been your experience, and how does the culture of art and its reception differ between the two spheres?

I am comfortable in the Anglo Saxon world. I find an inherent familiarity with the artists and collectors both in the UK and the US who love my work. It must excite their imagination. The architecture of these parts of the world inspire me so much! I love the Anglo-American neoclassicism. In the coming years I will definitely travel more in your part of the world!

"I try to sniff out the mysterious atmosphere of all the places and images. A result you can entirely get through photography. I prefer to work with a brush and paint.The process is slow, but you give the image more time to penetrate the mind."

—Pierre Bergian

6. What are your favorites in literature and music?

I read a lot, but I am not a connoisseur of literature... I do read a lot of nonfiction on art, architecture, archeology... I love to listen to music, from Jazz to classic, but I don't remember all the names. But I work well with and am inspired by 19th century music, from Schubert to Rossini, like everyone. I love also the 20th century specifically Britten and Walton for the British composers, and Samuel Berber, Copland, and Glass for the United States. They bring me into empty spaces and their sound is so mysterious, which is an important element of art for me, as art is emotional! I am not a fan of rational and conceptual art.

Quartered Wing

Quartered Wing

I know his cry,
it splits the muted blue.
From beyond my window,
the Northern Harrier works the sky.

When November unveils,
and even the fields stop to shudder,
though the wood has lost its flame,
the Gray Ghost remains.

The future's past is summer's glory,
the bee, and I, forget and complain,
the hawk overwinters,
indulging the humdrum weather.

We are not captive,
one hundred words move
within the clouded moons,
as we point at remote skies together. 

—G. Brunini 
8 February 2021

 

Leonardo's Bicycle—a love letter to Da Vinci

LEONARDO'S BICYCLE—a love letter to Da Vinci

We followed the old farm road past blue chicory,
and smiling queen Anne's lace,
to the gravel knoll, with tall grass between us.
Leonardo's bicycle was a two-tone Schwinn Phantom Deluxe,
the spring fork most-famous balloon model.

"Quite the exquisite Cantilever frame with tank and horn," he said. "Handsome whitewall tires and extra-wide chrome fenders."
I nodded, but saw only the broad reach of his face, and color rising on harvest grapes.
The leather saddle seat fit the man that examined the world.

"We'll take the turquoise streamers," he said. "I'll ride the green and black. And for my friend, the radiant-red model, more vermillion-black."
"A token gift," he insisted.
"Add one saddlebag for his vellum journal, charcoal, and looking glass."
"And rosemary focaccia," he smiled.

We pedaled faster to where birds perched on the high wire.
"Why the line of steel hung in the sky for miles running?" he asked.
"An equator divides the globe, and a lightning bolt carries the news of feast and famine."
"And god-wars that ruin the planet." 

I went riding with Leonardo today.
He drew many spoked wheels and flying machines.

"Fly with me!" I said "It's not your volo strumentale, or divine engineering of human flight,
but with arms outstretched we can glide hands-free."
Paired hawks quartered the countryside.
"Isn't it marvelous not having anything to do but play?"
"Across the great divide..."
"Maestro, why does her free smile enchant you so?"

"She is my child, brother, mother, father, sister, lover, aunt, and uncle, too,
the Mary of many and the Mary of none,
and the geranium if a white flower wore a face.
Mona Lisa is the breadth of space remaining after we've each taken our share.
She is what moves sitting silent,
the bright prism held within the rainbow,
listening and the telling,
the seed of thought and action,
the unborn babe I sketched by candlelight, asleep in the womb,
and the edge of darkness where moonlight illumines.
She is youth and decay, love and abandonment.
If ere I dreamed and loved I do evermore.
She is the greater giving and the evil hoard.
She is warm and sweet and fragile.
And that is why I love her.
For her fears spring from the grotto birthing mine.
I've been robbed a few times—Mona Lisa stays with me."

I went riding with Leonardo today.
He drew many spoked wheels and flying machines.

 

—G. Brunini
1 February 2021

Night by Elie Wiesel, and To The Land Of The Cattails by Aharon Applefeld, an editorial by Jonathan Tabakin

I've just recently reread Elie Wiesel's Night and Aharon Apllefeld's To The Land Of The Cattails, prompted, I'm sad to say, by the unrelenting sense of dread and impending doom that I, like many others, I'm sure, feel these days.

Both books are wonderful in different and similar ways, and I whole heartedly recommend both to those readers who want to look a little bit through a Holocaust survivor's eyes and both remember and re-remember the horror and inhumanity that seems increasingly these days in danger of being forgotten. Both are slim volumes that pull no punches.  Night follows a son and father as they catapult suddenly, before they know it almost, from happy family to ghetto to concentration camp.  To The Land Of The Cattails moves far more slowly as it charts a mother and son on their inexorable, hypnotic in its pace, journey toward their own quicksand. Reading both, we readers, knowing of course what will happen, want to cry out,  "Listen!  Look out!  Pay attention!"

Trump is not Hitler, to be sure, though he does scare me, and that some of his supporters are indeed nazis scares me even more.  But what terrifies me and makes me lie awake sometimes at night is the quiet lining up of trusted friends and neighbors, ready, almost eager, it seems, to point a finger and simply turn away.  This Jew, born in 1950, overreacts no doubt, but I still remember as a young boy not understanding any of it, anymore than I understand now.  That the fingers point now at others only makes it worse.  Have I not in my life stood up enough?

Probably not.  Already, writing this, I have hesitated to be specific and have even excised a paragraph or two for fear of hurting or shaming a loved one or friend.  The code words and phrases and the glibly alluded to conspiracies charge, and some groups are more or less targeted, but the machinations and economics of dismissal and hate are still much the same.

At a time when roughly one-quarter of Americans between the ages of eighteen and thirty-nine believe that the Holocaust is some sort of fabrication, these two small volumes call out to us to listen to the brooding silence building around us and cry out.

At a time when police execute no-knock warrants not knowing who is within, when we argue whether shooting someone in the back seven times is a "good shoot" or not, when kneeling... At a time when citizens in the streets, in places of worship, in supermarkets are literally getting out their guns, hear and speak up we must!  These two books remind us what might happen if we do not.

—Jonathan Tabakin

The Pony in the West, 2020, G. Brunini Congdon

The Pony in the West, 2020, by G. Brunini Congdon, oil on canvas, 24" x 28"

This piece pairs with Boy Posse, 2018. Both are inspired by time spent in my youth living in the Yucatan. Both compositions play tribute to the inner world of boyhood. 

The Secret Lives of Glaciers by M Jackson 2019

 

"My dad always told me you couldn't push a river, and I found the analogy worked just as well with people."—M Jackson

 

Dr. M Jackson is a geographer and glaciologist, National Geographic Society Explorer, TED Fellow, veteran three-time U.S. Fulbright Scholar-National Science Foundation Arctic research grants, and the author of numerous titles, including The Secret Lives of Glaciers. 

There are five dominant glaciers surrounding Höfn, Iceland, where M lived. Höfn is reached across the farthest tip of a narrow stretch of land, placing glaciers right up front and in your face. Just the way the locals like it. When the aurora borealis lights up a glacier in  the blue-black Icelandic night, Jackson tells us that it's a sight to see, "like a candle-lit chandelier." 

 

"The glaciers they are just a part of who I am."

—Sveiin—Höfn resident

"I want to bring meaning to why a quiet Icelandic man would knock on my door and take me several hours to his favorite place on the south coast in freezing temperatures to explain to me what he was fighting for—what to him was at stake as we hurdle forward into an unknown warming future." 

—M Jackson

Red-headed Icelanders dressed in red, ice caves, glaciers turn blue when it rains, sometimes gray, almost black, more purple-black, more blue paint and less white on a canvas, late evening coffee, oceanic moisture, pervasive fog, milky light, ice-water slurry, things change, grow and shrink, naked-ice, denial, F-road, glacier guides, glacier jeeps, chattering glacier, happy glacier, flirtatious glacier, musing glacier, angry glacier, hungry glacier, listening glacier, seeing glacier, leave-me-alone glacier., one earth, everything is connected... Personally, I have no trouble believing that a glacier is a sentient being. I name my favorite pieces of furniture, along with my oak and apple trees. 

"but glaciers dear friend—ice is only another form of terrestial love."—John Muir

Blackberry Crumble Cake

I invented this cake the afternoon of my youngest son's birth. It went in the oven, and two and a half hours later we had reason to celebrate. He was born at home, attended by two midwives. It's reminiscent of a coffee cake from childhood.

INGREDIENTS:

9 - 10" springform pan, the bottom lined with parchment paper and the sides oiled.

Fruit of choice in season: blackberries, raspberries, blueberries, and in the fall, diced apple and pear.

1/2 cup extra virgin olive oil

3/4 cup maple syrup

2 free range eggs

1 tsp. vanilla

1/2 cup goat yogurt (or your choice)

2 cups whole wheat pastry flour

1 tsp. baking powder

dash of baking soda

dash of sea salt

 

TOPPING:

1/2 cup chopped walnut

1/2 tsp cardamon

1/2 tsp cinnamon

2 tbsp olive oil

1/3 to 1/2 cup maple syrup

 

DIRECTIONS:

Mix in a mixer, or by hand, the wet ingredients. Add the dry, and continue mixing. Spoon cake in pan. Set fruit across the top. Spoon the nut and maple mixer the surface.

Bake at 375 degrees for 40 minutes or so until a knife inserted is dry. 350 degrees if in a convection oven.

The Man in the Moon

Protest peacefully, VOTE, fall in love, run for office, raise a family which respects each color, race, or religion, and change the world...  Summer 1968 / Summer 2020

Black Elk Speaks by John G. Neihardt 2014

"To the Great Spirit's day, to that day grown old and wise, I will make an offering."—Black Elk

Where can we look and not be reminded of our reach, our grab and take away, from those who took nothing. If ever there were a time for the "Daybreak Star"—"Behold the Star of Understanding." It is the moment at hand. I was always drawn to Native American lore and teachings, more so when I discovered my seventeenth century Montagnais ancestry from Quebec. The "Grandmother Land," Canada. The Montagnais wore wolves heads and skins on their heads that rolled down their backs. 

"The beauty and strangeness of the earth."

"Every little thing is sent for something and in that thing there should be happiness and the power to make happy. Like the grasses showing their tender faces to each other." 

His name was "Eagle Wing Stretches." Black Elk was born in 1863. The treaty the U.S. government made with the Lakota's stated: "it would be ours as long as grass should grow and water flow." We know what happened with that piece of forked-tongue truth. 

"They had forgotten that the earth was their mother."

"Hey-a-a-hey!" "Hey-a-a-hey!" "Hey-a-a-hey!" "Hey-a-a-hey!"

Another favorite of mine, Jospeh Campbell, loved Black Elk. Black Elk was nine years old when the grandfathers gave him his prophetic vision. "I saw myself on the central mountain of the world." "The central mountain is everywhere." "But anywhere is the center of the world." Campbell called it the "axis—mundi—polestar." The vision was so profound that Black Elk mentioned it to no one. It scared him so. "The real was yonder and the darkened dream it was here." He was eleven years old in 1874, and seventeen when he shared his vision. He had seen a "map of the universe," a shield, and his mind recorded the minute detail. After he revealed his vision to the tribe they reenacted it as he directed. It brought him satisfaction to have tried to warn his people of the barbarism and waste that lay ahead. 

"I am a Lakota of the Oglala band. My father's name was Black Elk, and his father before him bore the name, and the father of his father, so that I am the fourth to bear it. He was a medicine man and so were several of his brothers. Also, he and the Great Crazy Horse's father were cousins, having the same grandfather. My mother's name was White Cow Sees: her father was called Refuse-to-Go, and her mother, Plenty Eagle Feathers. I can remember my mother's mother and father. ... I was born in the Moon of the Popping Trees (December) on the Little Powder River in the Winter When the Four Crows Were Killed (1863), and I was three years old when my father's right leg was broken in the Battle of the Hundred Slain. From that wound he limped until the day he died, which was about the time when Big Foot's band was butchered on Wounded Knee (1890). He is buried here in these hills." —Black Elk

 

In 1886, when he was twenty three years old, Black Elk joined Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show. He was curious. It played in Madison Square Garden. The hoop of his people was broken, maybe he could learn something from the Waschisus, that might save them. "All living in square gray houses..." He particularly liked meeting Queen Victoria who owned Grandmother's Land. He spent two winters in London, Paris, and Germany, fearing he might die there. Nearly three years in total. 

"I am sixty-seven years old. All over the world I have seen all kinds of people; but today I have seen the best—looking people I know. If you belonged to me, I would not let them take you around in a show like this."—Queen Victoria

Go girl go, how I love the Queen Mum. Albert and John Brown loved her too.

 

Here is a list of the Lakota Moons, may they make you smile :

 

September: Moon When the Plums are Scarlet / Moon of the Black Calf / Moon When the Calves Grow Hair

October: Moon of the Changing Season

November: Moon of the Falling Leaves

December: Moon of the Popping Trees

January: Moon of Frost in the Teepee

February: Moon of the Dark Red Calves

March: Moon of the Snowblind

April: Moon of the Red Grass Appearing

May: Moon When the Ponies Shed

June: Moon of Making Fat (sun highest growing power and strongest)

July: Moon of Red Cherries

August: Moon When the Cherries Turn Black

 

Read Black Elk Speaks and think and wonder lost in his world, for it is our world, too. 

Black Elk's vision, which I sketched in the front piece of my copy: