Milton Avery



Sally Reclining, 1962, Milton Avery

We've all heard the saying hundreds of times, "Behind every successful man, there's a woman..." You finish the rest; there are a hundred different endings, some profound, some humorous, some crude, some merely rude. I've written several times before regarding various art couples and their relationships, and they tend to follow some of the above-mentioned guidelines. One of the most interesting and loving art relationships I know of was that of Sally and Milton Avery. Sally Michel was a commercial illustrator. In spite of her family's objections, they were married in the summer of 1924. He was 39, she was 22. Milton was ever fond of telling people, "Sally is the best thing that ever happened to me.  Everything I paint, that isn't a cow, is probably Sally." Milton painted very few cows.

Milton Avery Self-Portrait, 1940

Avery was born in 1885 in the small town of Sand Bank, New York, not far from Lake Ontario. The son of working class parents. He went to work in various factories and by the time he was sixteen, he was also taking art classes at night. In 1911, when he was 26, he began painting full time with a Yankee work ethic that saw him at his easel from dawn till dusk. At an early age, he found himself the only male survivor in a family of nine females--his mother, sister, sister-in-law, and a mixed bag of aunts and nieces. His work was attractive for its color harmonies if unexceptional otherwise.  After his marriage to Sally, the two of them moved to New York where they worked at their art during the day while again attending art classes at the Art Student's League at night. Sally became the art editor of the Sunday New York Times magazine section and often supported them financially as well as providing a secure atmosphere where Milton could work without the stress and worry usually associated with the struggling artist's life. She liked to recall how they use to pay their bills with Milton's paintings.

Rolling Surf, 1958, Millton Avery, abstract,
but not too abstract.

Their apartment, Milton noted wryly, was equipped with a revolving door. Artist friends came and went at will, always assured of stimulating conversation and a congenial atmosphere. Influenced by Matisse and Picasso, Avery soon became an influence himself as many younger artists visited to see his work and admire his warm, friendly depictions of domestic home life. Never deserting realism he was far more abstract than was popular during the trying years of the 1930s. Strangely enough however, by the late 1940s, when his work was gaining some critical and popular success, it may well have been because it was considerably less abstract than was common at the time. In 1949, Milton suffered a heart attack. He was 63. Sally was told he had no more than three years to live.  Fortunately perhaps, no one told Avery. He lived another sixteen years. He died in 1965 at the age of 80.  His work, on the other hand, is ageless.

Though Avery rarely painted cows, he did find
time for the occassional bull, and here a
Young Calf from 1938

Renaissance Cities--Milan

Milan, 1493, Nuremberg Chronicle woodcut

When we think of the Renaissance we automatically think of Italy, but we must not fall into thinking of the Italian peninsula during this time as a nation. Far from it, the southern half of the Italian boot was the Kingdom of Naples. In the North was the most powerful of the city-states--the Duchy of Milan. To its east, the Republic of Venice and to the south of Milan, the Republic of Genoa. Dominating the northern midsection of the boot was the Republic of Florence. Sandwiched between Florence and the Kingdom of Naples were the Papal States, ruled from Rome, along with a half-dozen or so minor city-states such as Siena, Ravena, Ferrara, and Urbino to name just a few. In short, during Renaissance, the place was a political nightmare. Worse, it was also a bloody one for much of this time.

Milan's Santa Maria della Grazie today

Left to their own devices, the military and political quagmire would have been bad enough, but there were outsiders involved too. Naples was ruled during much of this time by Spain and France, who eventually captured Milan. Add to this a few militant popes such as Julius II, and the Renaissance and the art that flowed from it is all the more miraculous. Yet despite the turmoil, perhaps even causing much of it, there was great wealth here, which is always the prerequisite for great art. The city of Milan is something of a microcosm for the entire time and place. The ruling families (at various points in time), the Viscontis  and the Sforzas were ambitious, ruthless, educated, religious, and great patrons of the arts. They attracted architects and engineers such as Bramante, Leonardo, Amadeo, and Michelangelo, all instrumental in feeding the "edifice complex" that was as much a part of Milan and its rulers as the enlightened times in which they lived.

Central to the city of Milan were the Dominicans. Church and state were not separate but two legs of a single civic being, neither of which could have long survived without the other. The home of the Dominicans, the church of Santa Maria della Grazie (above, right) went from being a modest oratory in the middle-ages to a major cathedral with its own elaborate monastery complex by the fifteenth century. The church became the center of all learning in the city. It was here, in the refectory (dining hall) that Leonardo staged his Last Supper. It was in Milan that Donato Bramante learned his trade, laying the foundation for his laying the foundation for new St. Peter's Basilica in Rome. Unlike Venice or Florence, or Rome, Milan (aside from the Last Supper, below) is not known for its painting but for its robust power and pursuit of scientific knowledge. Architecture engineering, science and religion were the key elements in its strong, towering presence as Milan cast a ponderous shadow over all of Italy during this time.

Milan's (also Leonardo's) most famous painting

Maxfield Parrish

Daybreak, 1922, Maxfield Parrish

In the early 1900s, up through until the dawn of television, there was, in this country, what has been called the "Golden Age of Illustration." Names such as Howard Pyle, Norman Rockwell, and N.C. Wyeth come to mind. However the most acclaimed American artist/illustrator of this period is said to have had a print of his work hanging in one out of every four homes in this country. In a survey taken in 1925, he was listed with van Gogh and Cezanne as one of the three greatest artist of all time. One of his paintings, featuring his daughter, Jean, and Kitty Owen, the daughter of William Jennings Bryan, is said to be the top-selling art print of all time. It was titled Daybreak (above) and it was by Maxfield Parrish.

Old King Cole, 1895, Maxfield Parrish

Frederick Parrish (he later changed his given name to his mother's maiden name) was born in 1870, the son of a well-known etcher, Stephen Parrish. He grew up in a well-to-do family with all the educational advantages of schooling and world travel the Victorian era had to offer. He was privileged to have studied all the great artists not from books but from the walls of museums. But he was especially taken by the work of the Pre-Raphaelites, most notably Rossetti and Lord Leighton. It was from them he derived his curious blend of realism, fantasy, and romanticism bordering upon the erotic. After a misguided effort to study architecture (which is evident in his paintings), Parrish enrolled in the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Art and later studied under Howard Pyle at the Drexel Institute. In 1895, he did a mural titled Old King Cole (above) for the University of Pennsylvania Thespian Society which gained him national attention.

Reveries, 1913, Maxfield Parrish

Hilltop, 1926, Maxfield Parrish

At the age of 25, he did his first magazine cover for Harper's Bazaar and from that time on, there was no end to the contracts for calendars, book covers, and national magazines. He became so popular his estate, "The Oaks" near Plainfield, New Hampshire, (which he designed and built himself) became a sort of artist colony populated by not just artists but writers and intellectuals of all types. By the 1920s his illustrations were commanding prices in excess of $2,000. It was during this time that he completed such famous paintings as Reveries (above, left), Daybreak (top), Hilltop (above, right), and Morning (below, right). His "Dynamic Symmetry" is still taught in art schools today. And his bold use of color, especially cobalt blue, has earned that hue the nickname "Parish blue." In 1960 he stopped painting altogether and married Susan Lewin, his companion and model, for 55 years.  She was 70. He was 90.  He died in 1966 at the age of 95.

Morning, 1922, Maxfield Parrish

Manet the Sponge



Moonlight over Boulogne Harbor,1869,
Edouard Manet

One of the better compliments that can be made about a young person, or a person of any age I guess, is that they soak up the world around them like a sponge.  Provided the environment is wholesome, this is usually seen as a good thing. It means they're a "quick study" which implies intelligence as well as a willingness to learn and try new things. For an artists, it's a special blessing because it indicates an open, inquisitive mind able to experiment with his or her art in such a way that they can synthesize various inputs into something altogether new rather than merely regurgitating a single influence they may have seen. Just as a sponge can pick up many separate substances, once it is compressed, all those different elements come out as a single liquid, something that may or may not resemble the original input. Picasso was like that. So was Michelangelo. Leonardo was almost too absorbent. And perhaps the best example would be Edouard Manet.

The Spanish Ballet, 1862, Edouard Manet

At eighteen, Manet began absorbing his Ecol des Beaux-arts background, studying under the lackluster Couture. After six years, he continued by absorbing the realism of Millet and Courbet. In fact, Manet was more "real" than Courbet ever was (Courbet was actually more of a naturalist than a realist in his style). He traveled to Germany and the low countries where he picked up on Franz Hals.  Then Manet (and others) discovered Japanese prints, which invaded his style.  When he traveled to Spain and studied Velasquez;  Manet's work almost tastes Spanish (as in his Spanish Ballet, 1862 (above, right). When the impressionists began to experiment with color as light, (or vice-versa) he picked that up too. His Impressionist paintings, such as his 1869, Moonlight over Boulogne Harbor (top, left) and Departure from Boulogne Harbor of the same week, demonstrate a thorough understanding of their invention.

Luncheon in the Grass, 1861, Edouard Manet

In 1861, Manet joined the Parisian art establishment when he had not one, but two, paintings accepted by the Salon. Two years later, when he squeezed the sponge, out came Luncheon on the Grass (left), which was summarily rejected (along with over 4,000 other paintings) by an unusually severe jury. When he exhibited it with the Salon des Refuse' the resultant outrage from the Paris art world was tantamount to a charge of treason. While Cabanel's erotic nude, Birth of Venus, was praised, won the top award that year, and was purchased by the emperor, Manet's naked woman picnicking with two stylish dressed gentlemen was deemed immoral. It did, however, make him an instant hero with the rebellious Impressionist and the Cafe Guerbois crowd. Though seldom an Impressionist himself, and never stooping so low as to display with them, Manet ate up the adoration and was an immensely powerful influence upon them.  Then, come 1865. The Salon jury, by some strange reasoning, reversed itself and displayed Manet's Olympia (bottom). This time there was an element of official sanction in the display of another of Manet's naked whores. This time the cries of outrage were even louder. This time a guard had to be posted to protect it. Twenty-five years later, in what might be termed an in-your-face act of I-told-you-so, the impressionists raised 20,000 francs to purchase the painting and present it to the French government.  Today it hangs in the Louvre. It's amazing what happens when you squeeze a sponge. 

Olympia, 1865, Edouard Manet

Maurice Prendergast

The Grove, 1915, Maurice Prendergast,
possibly the painting fought over by collectors

Most of us consider ourselves lucky when we sell a painting, though of course "luck" is only part of the equation and we could debate forever how big a part it might be. Imagine yourself in the enviable position, however, of having two noted collectors fighting over one of your paintings. WE WISH!  That was the case in 1915 when Maurice Prendergast exhibited sixty-one oils and watercolors at a big show in New York. It was a welcomed recovery from his disastrous participation in the historic and controversial Fifty-ninth Street Armory Show just the year before, which he'd helped organize. For all his efforts he'd sold absolutely nothing. The show did make headlines however, but most were negative. Despite this, some work by other artists did sell, and the show served to introduce American's, with a cold splash in the face, to Modern Art. Prendergast jokingly attributed his own poor showing to "...too much OMIGOD art."

The Tuileries Gardens, Paris, 1895,
Maurice Prendergast

Prendergast was born in St.Johns, Newfoundland, in 1859, but grew up in the progressive public schools of Boston where he studied mechanical drawing and grew adept at sign painting. For a time he worked as a display card artist before he and his brother, Charles, earned enough money to work their way across the Atlantic aboard a cattle boat. Then for three years in France, they absorbed Impressionism and Post-Impressionism (in all its various manifestations). Maurice was especially impressed by Cezanne and Seurat, developing a style of "dappled" painting largely free of the many passing "isms" he saw infect the careers of some of his artist-friends, causing them to rise meteorically and fall just as fast once something newer came along. It was in Paris, often painting in the parks or on the street, that he developed his love for painting large crowds, employing vertical and horizontal compositional patterns of color applied very thickly, often wet over dry to create a mottled texture.

Central Park, 1908-10, Maurice Prendergast

Back in New York, Prendergast discovered Central Park. His 1908-10 painting bearing that name is a delightful exposition of color subjugating illusion, making Prendergast, for a time, one of the most progressive painters in this country; so much so that inevitably, one critic dubbed his work, "...an explosion in a paint factory." It was probably the same critic who had commented that Duchamp's Nude Descending a Staircase looked like "...an explosion in a shingle factory." (So much for journalistic originality.) In New York, the dapper Prendergast brothers collaborated, Maurice painting the pictures, Charles framing them. Though allied with Robert Henri and the Group of Eight, Prendergast's east coast crowd scenes enjoying their leisure were much more closely aligned with the middle and upper-class subject matter of William Glackens and Stuart Davies than the Social Realism of Henri's Ashcan school. His work serves as an important bridge between traditional American Academic painting (which he detested) and the European Avant-garde which he helped introduce to the American public. One might even dub him the "American Cezanne."

Mathew B. Brady

A Brady image formed the basis of this
postage stamp as early as 1869.

He was born in 1823 in upstate New York.  As a teenager, he studied art with the painter, William Page, then went on to the National Academy of Design in New York. Following that, he studied with the painter and inventor Samuel F. B. Morse. At the age of 21, he opened a studio on the fashionable lower end of Broadway.  He was so successful that five years later, he was able to open a branch in Washington, DC where he depicted not just the rich but the famous politicians of his day too. His portraits are marked by a strong sensitivity for the personality of his sitter as well as a feeling for the mood of his subject. Today, there's not a single individual who hasn't seen his work hundreds of times. All you have to do is open your wallet and pull out a five-dollar bill. The face of Lincoln you see is an etching based upon the work of Mathew B. Brady.

Brady's portable darkroom was
very  much like this one
from the Civil War era.

Samuel F.B. Morse portrait photo,
1845, Mathew Brady

Although Samuel F. B. Morse is best known for inventing the telegraph, and for his amazing painting depicting the The Old House of Representatives in session, this "Renaissance man" was also one of the first Americans to take up the science of photography. It was from him that Mathew Brady learned the Daguerreotype process that allowed him to forsake his brushes and begin painting with light. At a time when photography wasn't even yet considered an art, Brady brought an artist's sensitivity for his subject to his work, posing his figures and composing each of his portrait photos just as if he were painting his model in oils. His flair for the dramatic and his instinctive feeling for the considerable technical limitations of the camera (bottom photo) and chemicals of his day came together in creating work that, in print, is hard to tell from black and white photos of paintings. His 1845 Daguerreotype of his mentor, Samuel F. B.  Morse (above, left) , is a prime example of this.

The classic Brady "Sunken Road" photo
of Confederate dead from the battle
of Antietam, 1862

Brady was in his forties when the Civil War erupted.  Packing up his cameras, fragile glass plates, and chemicals into what were essentially cumbersome darkrooms on wheels (above, right), he joined the army, following rather than fighting, recording the aftermath of battles such as Antietam, with such never before seen realism that he forever dispelled any romantic notion that war is in any way noble or heroic. Oliver Wendell Holmes, in seeing Brady's photos of just a few of the 5,000 killed and 18,000 wounded in a single day of fighting, commented he had the urge to bury the photos along with the dead. Brady trained dozens of assistants to take his portable darkrooms to where the fighting was, and though exposure times were still much too long to shoot actual battles (five to ten seconds usually, depending on the prevailing light), the graphic pictures of the killing efficiency of "modern" warfare served to erase the innocence of an entire nation. After the war, Brady began photographing the urban scene. His depictions of a bustling New York City predated the Ashcan School paintings by a whole generation. Late in life, a series of bad investments caused him to lose his studio. He worked for other photographers for a time before eventually dying in a charity Ward of a New York City hospital. In 1896, he was buried in a then unmarked grave in Washington, DC.

A Civil War era camera was no "point and shoot" affair.

Matisse and Picasso

It almost goes without saying that no artist works in a vacuum. We are all influenced by artists that have gone before us, both those we've known and those we'd liked to have known. The fortunate amongst us are those who have had the experience of a soul-mate in the arts or something of an alter ego with whom we could share our evolution as artists. Picasso had Braque. Monet had Renoir. De Kooning had Rothko. In each case the relationship did not last forever and there was sometimes a little rivalry in hand with the sharing of aesthentic growth.  Strangely enough, one of the less well-known artistic relationships of this sort was also one of the longer lasting. It was marked not by a close working relationship, but by a reserved friendship, mutual influence, mutual admiration, and a friendly rivalry that lasted throughout the working lifetimes of the two artists.

Daisies, 1939, Henri Matisse

Henri Matisse was twelve years older than his counterpart.  Matisse was an established, respected, Fauvist making great strides in the torturous birth of Modern Art at the turn of the century when Picasso was a mere, brash upstart from the Spanish hinterlands, newly arrived in Paris and determined to make a big splash on the art scene of his day. Matisse was a wild, paint-slinging rebel whose gregarious color statements on canvas made people gasp and shrink away in horror. Picasso was a creative genius laboriously plodding step-by-step through a surprisingly linear evolution that closely paralelled Matisse but in no way resembled him. Even then they knew each other and admired each other, and more importantly, began to borrow from each other--especially Picasso.

Woman with the Yellow Hair, 1931, 
Pablo Picasso 

The Dream, 1940,
Henri Matisse

By 1929 however, Matisse was burned out and Picasso was in top form. It was then that Matisse found in the work of his younger rival, the inspiration to move on. His 1939 painting, Daisies is similar in many ways to Picasso's Basket of Flowers and Pitcher (no photo available) of 1937. Though kept apart my the WW II, the two produced some of their most similar works during this time. Matisse's The Dream of 1940 (above, left) is almost a carbon copy of Woman with Yellow Hair from 1931 (above, right). Picasso's The Rocking Chair of 1943 (below, right)  harkens back to Matisse's Dancer in Repose from 1942 (below, left). Picasso would outlive Matisse by 19 years. For Picasso, the loss of his friend and rival was deep and personal. He would not answer the phone for weeks as Matisse lay near death, and declined to attend his friend's funeral. In his Woman in a Rocking Chair, done two years after Matisse's death (bottom, right), Picasso revisits his own 1943 effort. It has Matisse's colors, his patterned background but with simpler twisting of the body parts than before. Picasso deemed it a painted tribute to their lasting friendship.

Dancer in Repose, 1942,
Henri Matisse

The Rocking Chair, 1943,
Pablo Picasso 

Woman in a Rocking Chair,
1956, Pablo Picasso