Panic in the Village: An Intrepid Portraitist Takes on New York
Once upon a time, a little over a quarter century ago, in a gentler, more assured America I was summarily dismissed from the confining cell of my corporate cubicle, lined up against the wall with my fellow confederates (a failed bid for better working conditions) and shot through the heart with a pink slip.
That was a traumatic moment to be sure, but New York City in the early 1980's was abuzz with possibilities. I had never wanted to be pressed into corporate servitude, it was a necessity. There was tuition and rent to be paid.
For the next several weeks I haunted the corner of Sixth Avenue and West Fourth Street in Greenwich Village assessing what would be required to join the small legion of portrait artists working there. I smelt the possibilities of freedom. I could be my own man here. And business, on the whole, appeared brisk.
The leader of this collection of pastel besmirched free spirits was Chester, an accomplished artist who could work up an admirable pastel portrait in less than 40 minutes. Forty minutes! At that time it took me almost 40 minutes just to set up my easel and paints for class. And a week of class time to resolve a head study. Somehow, someway I needed to find a more economical approach to the portrait.
Chester's fee was $80 for a pastel portrait and he could effortlessly whip out at least five in an evening. Today $400 for a pleasant evening of painting is not something to be sniffed at. In the early 1980's this was a handsome chunk of change. I wanted a piece of this action.
Chester was also the administrator of the License for this patch of Manhattan concrete. I could have gone guerrilla and work elsewhere without a license (under the fragile protections of the 1st Amendment) but that had a taint of inappropriateness to it. Plus I longed for the companionship of other free souls. I ponied up my $100 share of the License.
Chester recommended that I get my chops working the Saturday afternoon shift. Sure business was slower then, but 'This ain't no fancy Art Students League and if you screw up the drawing nobody is gonna tell you that's alright, you'll do better next time. Your fair game out here.' Chester was proud of his rough and tumble empire -- an empire that would blossom into a village of almost 100 easels come the languid nights of summer.
The appointed hour of my apprenticeship was a gray, blustery late April Saturday. Struggling to still my nerves I dutifully packed my easel, paint box, a portfolio of sample work, and two lawn chairs and was swiftly carried down the IRT (New York's Westside subway line) to my appointed destiny. Perhaps a little too swiftly. I was a nervous wreck. I lugged my cumbersome gear up to my Golgotha where it would be me, a trembling art student, against the congregated might of New York City casually strolling the streets of Greenwich Village looking to be entertained. Entertained New York style.
Possessed of a stout heart and an impending stroke, I set up my humble bastion of free enterprise. My hands were trembling in such a manner that I could barely tighten the screws of my easel. After an interminable stretch of terror I was ready to draw. 'Gotta do this,' I kept whimpering to myself over and over again. I was open and ready for business.
The first hour passed quickly. 'That's OK,' I reassured myself. 'I'm just establishing my presence.' By the fourth hour, and no business, not even a nibble, my presence was wholly ignored. My entertainment value was negligible. I was no more than a speck of flotsam on the sidewalk; no more interesting than a discarded cheeseburger wrapper.
Growing ever more disillusioned I slunk into my chair and doodled. Twenty minutes passed and I was jolted out of my topor: 'How much for a sketch?' A customer! Thanks be to the Heavens! 'Just twenty,' I said. She asked how long it would take and I estimated about 20 minutes. Yes, I could do a portrait sketch in twenty minutes. In a studio with a still model and no interruptions.
'Sure. What the hell,' she said and plopped into a lawn chair.
This is it, I thought to myself. My grand embarkation into a new career as a Greenwich Village street artist. Watch out Bob Dylan! My hand was trembling so hard I could barely hold my pencil. I immediately realized my first error. I am tall, my kind customer short and we were seated on lawn chairs of similar height. I knew with some certainty that she did not want a portrait of the top of her head. A poor recourse was to slink down low into my chair.
She smiled, posing for her sketch, and my frightened and witless brain went blank. I began with her eyes. I knew that was wrong and a quick road to ruin but I couldn't help myself. It was if some other, wholly untrained hand had taken over. I struggled to regain control. The arabesque, damn it! Get the arabesque first, you fool. My demon hand sketched in a generic nose. What the hell is that! The nose was soon followed with a grim mouth.
A crowd began to gather behind me. An unfriendly crowd of comedians. 'Hey, buddy, that's a pretty good likeness... of John Wayne! Har! Har! Har!' What small remnants of confidence that remained of my ability took flight like startled sheep. I was alone here, utterly abandoned, steadfastly continuing to massacre my dismal drawing. It had lost all sense of structure, well, it never had any to begin with. I know better than this, but I panicked. Should have taken a moment to assess the overall shape of her head. But no! Fool that I was I rushed headlong into the drawing.
This bad start quickly spiraled out of control. 'Hey, buddy.' Oh crap! It's the John Wayne guy again. 'Ya gonna draw John Wayne's horse, too. What was that horse's name?'
'Tigger, I think,' someone in the mob behind me offered.
'Tigger? Naw, that was Roy Roger's horse,' another helpful interjection.
'The Lone Ranger! Yeh, Tigger was the name of da horse. Hey, artist boy, you gonna draw a mask on her?... I would if I was you.'
My once sweet customer now joined with the horde of tormentors behind me. 'Yeh, make me look like cat-woman.'
The scent of blood, fresh carrion in the street, is sure to draw a large crowd. I suspected a mob of hundreds had gathered behind me. I was too terrified to look and glumly sought a solution. Switch to tone! That'll salvage the drawing. I hope. With nary a thought to my training and fervently praying for a miracle, any kind of miracle would suffice, I grabbed a thick piece of charcoal and willy-nilly slapped on patches of incoherent shadow. Uh Oh! Bad move.
I stumped down the charcoal with my hand. Alas, not with a sculptural sensibility but more like a plasterer laying plaster on a barn wall.
This extremely poor choice of strategy stunned the mob. They fell silent. For a moment. A torrent of raucous laughter ensued. My sitter enjoyed the attentions of the crowd and contorted her face into mock gestures.
I knew now that all was lost. Utterly, utterly lost. I soldiered on to the bitter end and with a deep shame revealed the drawing to her. She gasped. 'I'm not paying for that.' and crunched my sad disappointment into a ball and tossed it into the madding crowd who now enjoyed an impromptu game of volleyball.
Their entertainment at an end the crowd dissipated into cafes and other establishments of camaraderie. I packed my geared and slunk into the subway for my journey home to lick my wounds. I had been initiated.
Recounting this disaster I was, once again, impressed by the need to always proceed with a sound structural approach. Expressive intent, alone, will not carry a portrait drawing. There needs to be a clear strategy: first one strikes the arabesque, this establishes both the gesture and the overall likeness; then the placements and proportions of the facial arena. [This all taught in my Mastering Portrait Drawing: the frontal pose workshop.] From this simple start one progress with alternating passages of tone and line to articulate the features and expression.
My wounds eventually healed and I ventured forth into the Village again. A week should suffice for my poor showing to have been forgotten. If not forgotten, then forgiven. Never again would I abandon the portrait drawing strategy I had been taught. A harsh lesson had been learned.
That summer I drew scores of portraits. My fee rose steadily from that humble $20 to a solid $65 for a charcoal drawing. Several good friends were made and I fondly remember many of those warm summer nights. Doing drawing after drawing after drawing, where each one has to count is a powerful regimen for developing one's skill.
That was a traumatic moment to be sure, but New York City in the early 1980's was abuzz with possibilities. I had never wanted to be pressed into corporate servitude, it was a necessity. There was tuition and rent to be paid.
For the next several weeks I haunted the corner of Sixth Avenue and West Fourth Street in Greenwich Village assessing what would be required to join the small legion of portrait artists working there. I smelt the possibilities of freedom. I could be my own man here. And business, on the whole, appeared brisk.
The leader of this collection of pastel besmirched free spirits was Chester, an accomplished artist who could work up an admirable pastel portrait in less than 40 minutes. Forty minutes! At that time it took me almost 40 minutes just to set up my easel and paints for class. And a week of class time to resolve a head study. Somehow, someway I needed to find a more economical approach to the portrait.
Chester's fee was $80 for a pastel portrait and he could effortlessly whip out at least five in an evening. Today $400 for a pleasant evening of painting is not something to be sniffed at. In the early 1980's this was a handsome chunk of change. I wanted a piece of this action.
Chester was also the administrator of the License for this patch of Manhattan concrete. I could have gone guerrilla and work elsewhere without a license (under the fragile protections of the 1st Amendment) but that had a taint of inappropriateness to it. Plus I longed for the companionship of other free souls. I ponied up my $100 share of the License.
Chester recommended that I get my chops working the Saturday afternoon shift. Sure business was slower then, but 'This ain't no fancy Art Students League and if you screw up the drawing nobody is gonna tell you that's alright, you'll do better next time. Your fair game out here.' Chester was proud of his rough and tumble empire -- an empire that would blossom into a village of almost 100 easels come the languid nights of summer.
The appointed hour of my apprenticeship was a gray, blustery late April Saturday. Struggling to still my nerves I dutifully packed my easel, paint box, a portfolio of sample work, and two lawn chairs and was swiftly carried down the IRT (New York's Westside subway line) to my appointed destiny. Perhaps a little too swiftly. I was a nervous wreck. I lugged my cumbersome gear up to my Golgotha where it would be me, a trembling art student, against the congregated might of New York City casually strolling the streets of Greenwich Village looking to be entertained. Entertained New York style.
Possessed of a stout heart and an impending stroke, I set up my humble bastion of free enterprise. My hands were trembling in such a manner that I could barely tighten the screws of my easel. After an interminable stretch of terror I was ready to draw. 'Gotta do this,' I kept whimpering to myself over and over again. I was open and ready for business.
The first hour passed quickly. 'That's OK,' I reassured myself. 'I'm just establishing my presence.' By the fourth hour, and no business, not even a nibble, my presence was wholly ignored. My entertainment value was negligible. I was no more than a speck of flotsam on the sidewalk; no more interesting than a discarded cheeseburger wrapper.
Growing ever more disillusioned I slunk into my chair and doodled. Twenty minutes passed and I was jolted out of my topor: 'How much for a sketch?' A customer! Thanks be to the Heavens! 'Just twenty,' I said. She asked how long it would take and I estimated about 20 minutes. Yes, I could do a portrait sketch in twenty minutes. In a studio with a still model and no interruptions.
'Sure. What the hell,' she said and plopped into a lawn chair.
This is it, I thought to myself. My grand embarkation into a new career as a Greenwich Village street artist. Watch out Bob Dylan! My hand was trembling so hard I could barely hold my pencil. I immediately realized my first error. I am tall, my kind customer short and we were seated on lawn chairs of similar height. I knew with some certainty that she did not want a portrait of the top of her head. A poor recourse was to slink down low into my chair.
She smiled, posing for her sketch, and my frightened and witless brain went blank. I began with her eyes. I knew that was wrong and a quick road to ruin but I couldn't help myself. It was if some other, wholly untrained hand had taken over. I struggled to regain control. The arabesque, damn it! Get the arabesque first, you fool. My demon hand sketched in a generic nose. What the hell is that! The nose was soon followed with a grim mouth.
A crowd began to gather behind me. An unfriendly crowd of comedians. 'Hey, buddy, that's a pretty good likeness... of John Wayne! Har! Har! Har!' What small remnants of confidence that remained of my ability took flight like startled sheep. I was alone here, utterly abandoned, steadfastly continuing to massacre my dismal drawing. It had lost all sense of structure, well, it never had any to begin with. I know better than this, but I panicked. Should have taken a moment to assess the overall shape of her head. But no! Fool that I was I rushed headlong into the drawing.
This bad start quickly spiraled out of control. 'Hey, buddy.' Oh crap! It's the John Wayne guy again. 'Ya gonna draw John Wayne's horse, too. What was that horse's name?'
'Tigger, I think,' someone in the mob behind me offered.
'Tigger? Naw, that was Roy Roger's horse,' another helpful interjection.
'The Lone Ranger! Yeh, Tigger was the name of da horse. Hey, artist boy, you gonna draw a mask on her?... I would if I was you.'
My once sweet customer now joined with the horde of tormentors behind me. 'Yeh, make me look like cat-woman.'
The scent of blood, fresh carrion in the street, is sure to draw a large crowd. I suspected a mob of hundreds had gathered behind me. I was too terrified to look and glumly sought a solution. Switch to tone! That'll salvage the drawing. I hope. With nary a thought to my training and fervently praying for a miracle, any kind of miracle would suffice, I grabbed a thick piece of charcoal and willy-nilly slapped on patches of incoherent shadow. Uh Oh! Bad move.
I stumped down the charcoal with my hand. Alas, not with a sculptural sensibility but more like a plasterer laying plaster on a barn wall.
This extremely poor choice of strategy stunned the mob. They fell silent. For a moment. A torrent of raucous laughter ensued. My sitter enjoyed the attentions of the crowd and contorted her face into mock gestures.
I knew now that all was lost. Utterly, utterly lost. I soldiered on to the bitter end and with a deep shame revealed the drawing to her. She gasped. 'I'm not paying for that.' and crunched my sad disappointment into a ball and tossed it into the madding crowd who now enjoyed an impromptu game of volleyball.
Their entertainment at an end the crowd dissipated into cafes and other establishments of camaraderie. I packed my geared and slunk into the subway for my journey home to lick my wounds. I had been initiated.
Recounting this disaster I was, once again, impressed by the need to always proceed with a sound structural approach. Expressive intent, alone, will not carry a portrait drawing. There needs to be a clear strategy: first one strikes the arabesque, this establishes both the gesture and the overall likeness; then the placements and proportions of the facial arena. [This all taught in my Mastering Portrait Drawing: the frontal pose workshop.] From this simple start one progress with alternating passages of tone and line to articulate the features and expression.
My wounds eventually healed and I ventured forth into the Village again. A week should suffice for my poor showing to have been forgotten. If not forgotten, then forgiven. Never again would I abandon the portrait drawing strategy I had been taught. A harsh lesson had been learned.
That summer I drew scores of portraits. My fee rose steadily from that humble $20 to a solid $65 for a charcoal drawing. Several good friends were made and I fondly remember many of those warm summer nights. Doing drawing after drawing after drawing, where each one has to count is a powerful regimen for developing one's skill.
