Jotted on a tram.

I was on the way to have some tests done related to my eye (keratitis since January 17—such a drag not being able to see clearly) and was suddenly struck by the urge to write this about the paintings I have been doing. It's not very well-written but I'm glad it's beginning to crystallize.

The paintings are about me. Rather, they are a denial of the artificial, the mistaken identity with which I try to reconcile myself every day. Everything about them—the superficial scumbling of paint, their perspectival flatness countered by illusions of volume; the subject matter of volcanoes, which are by nature demonstrative, referential to some profound subterranean energy, with festering, dangerous tension; and finally, the act of painting itself: reiterative, contemplative, a mantra—all of these things are attempting to permeate the hard crust of "identity."

Progress.

Things are in a happy state of flux so instead of uploading pictures of new paintings I am presenting evidence of my latest object of desire: the isle of Stromboli, a bump in the sea just above Sicily; little more than a village at the foot of an active volcano. I want to be in Stromboli my last week in Italy. It makes perfect sense that I should end up there, after I move out of the apartment and before I board the flight to the US after two wonderful years here.  What a way to quietly reflect on the work I have done and all the blessings that have come my way.

I put off painting yesterday for some easy things: letter writing among them. This marks the beginning of the most challenging phase of this series of paintings. I am working toward completing nine in total, each 100 x 100 cm. I've taken six to an acceptable level of finish and I began the seventh yesterday. But the longer I paint in a series, the more likely I am to discover new forms—new visual language—thus calling into question everything I have done in the earlier work. While I'm happy to say that each new painting seems an improvement in some way on the last, this also compels me to reconsider what I have done earlier. It's both exciting and maddening! Progress is welcome, but every new discovery makes its predecessors appear somehow inferior. Today I found a way to represent something—some smoke and lava, which I had painted many times before in a different way—that really excited me. But suddenly this new bit of progress made the new painting feel unrelated in some way to the others in the group.

Now the images I posted earlier are things of the past—they no longer exist. Yesterday, after arriving at this new vocabulary of form, I painted over parts of a few of the earlier paintings in order to take care of some things that have been bothering me: the balance of color and contrast; some compositional issues. I knew this would happen, and I'm not the least bit upset by it, but it does make me more conscious of the time I have remaining to finish them. It's the way it always goes. It's a balancing act, trying to keep myself from completely destroying things in this search for some cohesiveness with the series.

I have a busy week ahead, with meetings with students, a lecture and crits by a guest artist, and my trip to Madrid Thursday through Sunday. I think the best thing to do will be to work extremely hard every day and then leave things alone for the weekend, allowing the machinations, the successes and failures to steep a bit without action. I'm giddy about visiting the Museums in Madrid: work I have waited my entire adult life to see. What a gift.

Two New Paintings and Some Changes.

A couple of new things, along with the minimal revisions to older paintings. These continue to evolve and aren't finished. I think once I have nine brought to a cohesive level of finish as a group I will begin refining them.

Better late than never.

I knitted a scarf and it feels incredible.

The Cenci.

I've long wanted to visit the sad town of Petrella Salto in Abruzzo, as it's the site of an infamous murder with an association to our program in Rome. Since 1960 we've been housed in Palazzetto Cenci near the Jewish Ghetto, a Renaissance building built by the wealthy Cenci family.

Perched on a wicked, rocky hill overlooking the small town is "La Rocca Cenci," the skeletal remains of a castle tower. It was here that Francesco Cenci met his gruesome demise in 1598. His family first poisoned him then bludgeoned him to death, and threw his body over a balcony, where it toppled to the foot of the hill.  The crime was discovered and the family members were tortured into confession. Among them was his 21-year-old daughter Beatrice, the most tragic of the cast of characters since she had been brutalized by her father and—along with her step-mother—held captive in the castle. "I'm taking you here to die," he told them. 

Francesco was a real creep and many believed he deserved his fate, having terrorized Rome and his own family for years. Yet the subsequent trial and execution of Beatrice, her step-mother and her brother became one of the most controversial in history as the papacy wanted to make an example of the nobles to send a message to all: no one is above the law. Their executions were attended by thousands, and it's often said that Caravaggio's reiteration of decapitations was probably stimulated by his inevitable presence there.

Reminders of Beatrice are everywhere in Rome. I often find myself coincidentally  in places which define her geography—the jailhouse in which she spent her last days, the spot at the end of Ponte St. Angelo where she was beheaded, the church on the Gianicolo where she is buried but which seems to contain no marker. There's a decent reproduction of Guido Reni's haunting portrait of her hanging in our main lecture hall: a tragic plea for clemency which has endured for hundreds of years. Students say they can sense her presence in our building with the dimming of the day. Like Reni, Hawthorne, Shelley and many others I'm moved by Beatrice as an emblem of soured justice. Her delicate beauty adds to this.

In the pictures above you can see Guido Reni's portrait of Beatrice Cenci (now in Palazzo Barberini) along with an awkward, depressing mural which welcomes you to Petrella Salto. In the third picture, La Rocca Cenci looms over the lonesome little town and then there's me, seated in front of the ruins on a rainy Saturday in the dead of winter.

One of the coolest guys in Rome.

This accordionist is on Ponte Sisto just about every weekend morning, facing the sun, his body heaving to and fro to the music. He's completely rapt with pleasure while playing. I was finally able to get a photo of him.

The series so far.

Frustrazione.

Back in the studio and hitting the usual "ruin it" phase of painting. Just take a look at the dour expression on my face.

Notes on Greece and Istanbul.

I am including below a note to a friend back in the States. It features some thoughts on my recent travels to Greece and Turkey.

*   *   *

Davide, caro amico!

Grace arrived home last night and among the treasures she brought from the States was your thoughtful Christmas card. Thanks so much. She delivered the goods because I opted out of a trip home this Christmas, deciding instead to use the time for some much needed exploration of other places in Europe. I headed to Greece and Istanbul for 11 days and, while the weather could have been better (especially in Crete, where the temps are sometimes in the upper 60's in winter) I had a fantastic time. A friend from Rome came with me and we shared a lot of laughs, along with too much coffee and honey-drenched, Turkish pastries. I've regained a bit of my 46 year-old paunch after months of gym and running had trimmed it to respectable proportions. Alas, it's back to the square one and as I write this note I am readying myself for an hour at the gym, prepared for the humbling realization that I have a bit of work to do.

Being in a fundamentally Muslim country for the holidays was intriguing, and we explored Istanbul at dawn on Christmas day, following the somewhat haunting call to prayer as the sun rose over the Blue Mosque and Hagia Sofia. We also subjected ourselves to the joys of a hamam—a 15th century Turkish bath in which I was lathered up beyond recognition, had every joint, tendon and muscle brutalized and was tossed around like a slippery fish on a slab of marble by a half-naked, 250-lb Turk, whose only words to me were "you leave tip." I'll never forget this experience.

Turkish and Greek food was fantastic, primarily because of its pronounced difference from Roman fare. Every once in a while I go in mad search of a hamburger, which usually costs me the equivalent of about 18 US dollars. I've never been much of a foodie anyway, and while I enjoy stracceti e rucola, saltimbocca alla romana, and spaghetti alla carbonara as much as the next guy, the reiteration of these dishes on every menu in the city has me wanting a little variety.

Back to the trip. We managed to take an inspiring hike in the mountains outside of Chania in Crete, accompanied by dozens of goats, whose distant, melancholy bells defined the space around us. We came upon an ancient chapel built into the side of a hill and found a dead goat inside, along with makeshift preparations for offerings such as oil, candles and incense. We visited Knossos (what an insulting "reconstruction!") and I was thrilled to make the journey to the Dikteon cave, the supposed birthplace of Zeus. We were the only visitors there, and the constant rain made the experience even more chthonian as we were many meters inside the earth, surrounded by the sound of dripping water and light reflected in dark pools and on the surface of organic rock formations. We spent several days in Athens as well, and I really enjoyed placing King Aegeus on the steps of the Temple of Athena Nike on the Acropolis, scanning the horizon for the white sails of Theseus' ship and finally ending his own life over a tragic misconception. The Archaeological Museum was great as well, and I saw many beautiful sculptures that I'd studied for years in books. In Athens we stumbled on a confrontation between riot police and protesters, who tipped over a police car in the middle of the street. We missed the peak of violence in the city, but I was sternly advised by a young woman to delete the pictures I took of her companion, who had spray-painted anarchistic graffiti on a wall.

I haven't done a tremendous amount of traveling while here but now that the end is in sight I am considering a couple of essential trips centered on museums. Berlin and Madrid are the most important to me, given the art holdings, but I'm also interested in Prague, Vienna, Cairo and Morocco—the latter because it's where my parents met in 1954 or so. Who knows if I will be able to do it all, but I need to try my best.  I am not sure when I will have the opportunity to be so close to this stuff again, so I think I should stay on a while after the job is done, perhaps living with a friend for a couple of extra months in order to see a few more of the world's great places.

I'm on sabbatical next year and I've begun a series of paintings here, trying to take advantage of my huge studio and the wealth of precedents surrounding me. I have scheduled a show of new paintings at the Cenci in May, so I have my work cut out for me, although I am off to a good start, I think. I was on a roll but the job sometimes consumes a lot of my attention and this means putting my painting on a back burner for a few weeks at a time. 

And you? How are things? How is Lois? And Marjorie? Who will be department head next year? How is the search for a new colleague going? I am privy to vague stirrings from Jon and Melissa now and then, but wonder how their independent lives are taking shape. I think often of you and I have fallen out of touch with everyone—Susan, Jean, Jon, Mel, Nick, Fritz. 

I've been up for hours now and while I could write much more I should prepare myself for the pains of the gym, surrounded by cruel mirrors and tiresome disco music at 8:30 am, Roman time. Later in the day, I'll head out for a trot with my friend Johnny who, at 32, runs circles around me. Another cup of coffee and a self-administered pep talk and I'm ready for action.

Thanks again for the card, dear friend. Please fill me in on life back home.

All the best,
R

Icons

I was enlisted last week for a quick freelance job, which I did over the weekend. I havea busy week ahead so I didn't have a lot of time to fuss over them. Some I like (Poe) some I don't (the quaint sunflower and tomato, meant to represent a farmer's market in Providence).

New progress.

I think I am finally able to visually articulate my intentions. This is a new painting, about 100 x 100 cm (3.28 feet square). It's unfinished but I am glad to see that I've been able to do what I want to do after a lot of failure.

Sock it to me.

A new effort here. My intentions aren't really clear, and—as I told Tomaz today—it's in the "ruination phase." I murmured to myself on the way home this afternoon that every act of creation includes destruction and while this idea is exciting it's also frustrating. Every painting starts from zero it seems, and it feels like an entirely new set of variables. This is an intriguing, eternal challenge, but sometimes I wish it would just get a little easier.

I had an interesting talk today with Ezio about the whole group of things. He was reassuring, and volunteered some enthusiasm. I trust his word—having worked with him for a while I don't think he's one to blow smoke. That gave me a little boost.

I had been telling Tomaz that I am really feeling a little panicked about how there's no common language in anything. I am describing volcanoes, but never the same way twice. I am describing boats, but with a different vocabulary every time. I wrote this to Tomaz today:

I talked with you a bit about the need for some consistency in my work. I don't regret having explored different visual languages and I'm not a big proponent of style, but I think I am so "all over the map" right now that it's a bit of a problem. Take the three paintings of boats, for example. The fact that I never use the same "vocabulary" to describe the boat seems to show a lack of certainty or dedication to an idea. It's just skimming the surface:

http://robertbrinkerhoff.blogspot.com/2008/08/running-4.html

See what I mean?

Same with the volcanoes. It's obvious that I am still in an investigative mode, still trying to figure out how to show something, how to say something. And if a person doesn't have fluency of "language" how can he artfully form thoughts without drawing so much attention to the flair of the language? If the voice is changing so often, I think the attention will be on the voice, rather than the message.

I mentioned to you that this is a persistent problem of mine: I seem to either be on a quest for the best voice/language, and unable to formulate a body of work which ultimately says something in its consistency.

An analogy: imagine reading a book by a writer who is telling a story but who constantly changes voice or even language. That's what I think I am doing Tomaz. At the same time I am loathe to commit to any sort of consistency which would indicate an attention to "style" over substance—which would seem to read as a convenient "bag of tricks." This is the shit I need to sort out. It's what most painters refer to as "fetishizing."

Un'altro cambio, ancora.

A couple minor changes in response to Elizabeth's comments about the source of the eruption.

Cambio.

I changed things drastically. I just couldn't stomach the way it was turning out. Here's the reworked canvas and a detail—some new iconography that interests me.

Grazie miei amici.

Haven't yet addressed the issues Elizabeth has mentioned below (all good points, thanks) but I think I have begun to work on the hierarchy, per Rich's gracious and intelligent suggestions. 

Speak up.

These images always reproduce with such lackluster surface here, no matter how much I try to compensate by hiking up contrast etc. Here's the latest phase of a new painting, and I'm eager to hear opinions. I am trying to limit the palette significantly because I feel like there's a disconnect in previous efforts between the nature of what I'm showing and the color relationships embedded in the imagery. So this one is a volcano, and the volcano and everything around it is affected by the essence of volcanoes—heat.

These are paintings of volcanoes. On two occasions, people have failed to see the subject matter and this is a little unnerving.

Someone recently remarked that my work is somewhat dark. I think that in some ways that's a welcome description, since I have been struggling to grow more accepting of my propensity for cartoonish form and a little darkness may compensate for what could tip the scales toward frivolity. I don't know if it's my relatively primitive method of painting, the manifestation of impulses that shouldn't be denied or something else, but I feel like I need some clarity about the way I am painting. 

Something new.

This is a little larger, about 3.25 feet square.

I went to the Jean-Michel Basquiat show today. His impulsive use of materials and incredible gift for form and design was really inspiring. I agonize over trivial details, get myself into fastidious snits both conceptually and materially.

Finito.

I'm calling this done. For now. The contrast looks very dull, and it's a bit more vibrant than indicated in this image but I am tired of fussing with it.

Sono tornato.

Ezio and I had a great dinner last night at the American Academy. Those folks consistently deliver: good company—smart, earnest people with fascinating intentions.

Next week promises a return to the studio—no two ways about it. The freelance work and tour necessitated some delays and then we arrived home with a seriously injured student, who fractured her vertebra with a 35 ft jump from a cliff into the water in Riomaggiore. She's hospitalized and will have surgery this weekend.

We're almost halfway through the semester. I am sad to think about leaving Rome behind.

A few photos from the tour: