Metamorphosis
It has been one year to the day since I last wrote about my art. In that time I have created exactly two paintings, each of which took months and untold hours of energy, intention and execution. I am not telling you this to laud my achievement, as a matter of fact it is shocking to me and at times disheartening. However, it is a piece I felt convinced to paint and in its execution was transformative.
Several years ago, while cycling with my life partner in rural east Texas I came upon the butterfly lying on the side of the road, one wing damaged and decided to preserve it knowing it would surely die and most likely be crushed. It was magnificent and I knew it was one of many that would survive and live out their biological destinies. I felt sorrow for this particular insect because I have a supreme reverence for nature in all its forms and I speculated its demise was caused by a passing vehicle.
Upon our return I found the creature lifeless and as I examined it I realized the mysteries of nature and the fleeting qualities of existence. I was amazed to see the positive/negative coloration on either side of the butterfly and I was captivated by the idea that it had begun its life in a completely different form, transforming into the glorious creature I beheld. That is not to denigrate the phenomenal aspect of its period as a caterpillar, which had to be equally spectacular.
I kept the specimen for several years. I often thought about the transformation from its leaf-chomping form, instinctively cocooning itself, then emerging as this enormous and beautiful pollinator. I imagined it fluttering among blossoms sipping nectar through its now permanently coiled organ. I was reminded of a hike, many years ago to Napatree Point in southwestern Rhode Island where I grew up. A narrow spit of sand about one and a half miles juts out from Watch Hill separating Stonington, Connecticut from the Atlantic Ocean. It terminates at a mound of rocks that contain natural vegetation as well as the ruins of WWII bunkers. That day my friend and I found ourselves in the midst of a massive gathering of Monarch Butterflies apparently in migration. I will never forget that moment although the timeframe escapes me.
This metamorphosis is deeply significant to me. When I decided to use the butterfly as a subject for a painting the first question I asked myself is “Why?”. The answer was transformation. I like to think of myself as a commercially viable artist but I appall the idea of commodifying my art. I create with intention and introspection in the hope of being transformed myself. Unlike the metamorphosis of caterpillar to butterfly, my transformative process is much slower. I made a small sketch of the subject in a notebook, then using a proportional grid, transferred the sketch to the large canvas in pencil. Square by square I transferred the image, visually correcting any misalignments. I blocked in a base coat of color as a guide. That was the easy part.
It may be hard to imagine, but this painting, as most of my paintings consists of literally thousands of deliberate and uniform brushstrokes. The layering of marks occurs repeatedly until my desired effect is reached. Glossiness, vibrancy of color, depth of black, whatever. Then begins the process of limning each of those marks with a contrasting mark in which color is added and removed, leaving a single line. In this manner, the painting metamorphosed to its current incarnation over a period of five months.
People who see my paintings, this one in particular point out the tedium that must exist in such an endeavor. To them I say, “Yes. That is true.” To myself it is akin to The Rosary. A devotional practice of repetition and introspection in order to achieve a connection with a higher power. I will admit throughout the work on this painting I experienced various levels of depression, from mild to extreme, occasionally debilitating as well as a wavering of faith. But I am a dedicated artist and most often I worked, regardless of my circumstances, mental or otherwise. Four to six hour painting sessions, day after day for weeks and months gave me time to examine my mind and adjust my mindset.
This time allowed introspection on many levels. A great deal of it was devoted to the butterfly. Its miraculous existence and untimely death as well as its purpose. My own purpose, perceived failures and unrealized potential also crossed my mind. I found when my mind obsessed on the bitterness of my past my hand erred. With each hour I worked on the painting everything in my life came to mind; my brothers and their families, my upbringing, my friends present and lost, relationships, the plight of the world and all its inhabitants. Also, my struggle with being HIV+ and my own mortality. These ideas along with my duty to my life partner and the ever present threat of his epilepsy. I reflected on these things both when and when not painting but my painting sessions gave me time to think about them deeply.
If I were to ascribe any sort of symbolism to the butterfly it would symbolize my mother, Sara. She would have celebrated her 84th birthday on June 11 had she not been so cruelly taken from us thirty-three years ago, due to illness. I think about her always and especially when I am painting because she always encouraged my artistic-ness. In my younger years I routinely drew for her – cards, letters – I believed she loved me although I did not always make that easy.
Memory of Sara • Acrylic on canvas • 30” X 40” (76.2 X 101.6 cm) • 2006
For me she was a tacit example of metamorphosis. An Italian immigrant, she arrived at Ellis Island with her parents at the age of fifteen. Her story is one of absolute assimilation and metamorphosis. Her name was Americanized and by all accounts her marriage to my father was arranged by both sets of parents. She had but a high school education but was extremely well-read and spoke beautiful English, never speaking to her own children in her native language. I am not saying that is right or wrong, just how it was. She was a devoted wife and mother, held blue and white collar jobs when necessary, and was a devout Catholic.
She was born Rosaria Sarandria and when I sat by her bedside in her final hours she expressed to me her devotion to God and her fearlessness of death. Even then she was beautiful, like the butterfly. It is like each of the tens of thousands of brushstrokes I have ever painted is a tear shed for her. That is why I think of her when I see the butterfly and why my art has always been dedicated to her.
