Including Veronika

Veronika, ca. 1988, Oil on Linen, 16 by 14 in., Collection of the Artist

My Home Studio en Deshabille

Many  artists fall in love with portraiture when they are studying traditional painting methods at the art academies.  But when their school days are behind them, they quickly learn how difficult it is to make a living painting portraits, unless they are ready, willing and able to copy photographs of CEO’s, a popular “how-to” subject curiously omitted from Robert Henri’s inspirational bible, “The Art Spirit.”

I have often wished I could eke out a living by painting head and shoulders portraits from life on a regular basis for a couple of hundred bucks apiece.  Alas, for my sake only, I’m no clever entrepreneur, and dreaming about this was as far as I ever got.  Along with a plethora of character faults I’m saddled with, I blame my ill-suited home studio for not realizing this dream.  

You really need a grand space to paint portraits on a regular basis, and the wealth of an Arabian sheik to acquire that space in Manhattan.  Your regal sitters should not have to walk through slipshod living quarters to get to a cramped, cluttered home studio that used to be a bedroom in a middle-class, pre-war New York City apartment, and which most certainly was not designed for creating portraits in the grand manner. 

One of the problems with painting portraits by natural light in my home studio is that I have to paint very close to the two adjacent, average-size windows in the room to get enough light on my sitters and my canvas.   The light is further reduced because I block those windows with shades about three-quarters of the way up to get at least a semblance of the 45-degree angle of light that we traditional painters prefer.  One of my dealers was amazed that I could paint with so little light.  Well, the reduced, concentrated natural light is acceptable for painting still lifes, but inadequate for portraiture.   In essence, my painting area isn’t big enough and the light isn’t strong enough to allow me to explore a variety of poses to get the most flattering light effect on my sitters.  The two windows are in the middle of the short wall of the 11 by 20 foot room.  That’s another major problem.  I’m not able to back up far enough alongside that short wall to compare the sitter and my painting on the same plane and in the same atmosphere.  With necessary storage at both ends of the short wall, it’s really only about 7 feet of usable space for the model stand and my easel.

There are many accounts of the great portrait painters like Sargent and Philip de Laszlo getting a lot of exercise walking long distances back and forth as they painted.  Both men set their canvases beside their sitters.  Describing the visual phenomena necessitating all this physical activity is not an easy task.  “I must go fairly far off to see the general effect of my subjects as a whole in all that rightness of relation upon which I insist so much,” de Laszlo said in “Painting a Portrait,” one of a series of  little “how-to” books published in the 1930s by The Studio Publications of London and New York.  “When I stand back I am recording mentally what I am going to put on my canvas when I walk up to it.”   Not many portrait painters are able to work that way today, but we can still judge the proper values and general effect much better at a distance than we can up close.

I know that many painters today like to work close to their sitters at all stages of the painting to get that photographic detail they can’t live without.  But in addition to needing room to back up, I need a few feet of psychological distance from the sitter to be comfortable while I paint and talk to the people I paint; that is, on the few occasions when I do paint them in my home studio.  I’ve never had much demand for my portrait work.  Must I add, “With good reason?”

I probably shouldn’t complain, however, even though I’m good at it and it’s what some friends claim I do best.  I’ve heard about far worse situations from quite a few apartment dwellers who are also serious painters.  An easel set up temporarily in the corner of a living room is often the only option, given the outrageously high rents for tiny studio spaces in New York City.  Some urban artists just continue to paint in the art schools because it’s impossible for them to paint at home.

My friend Albert Herr (1923-2008), an excellent painter who had been one of the top courtroom sketch artists for television news programs for 20 years, initially had a similar home studio setup, with the daylight coming from large terrace windows on the short wall of a very long room.  Al painted a lot of portraits of paid models in his home studio, as well as many portraits of an Eastern European man who just loved getting his portrait painted by Al.  That man wasn’t wealthy, as far as we could tell, but he bought some of Al’s paintings of the models and paid Al $500 each time he sat for the dozen or more portraits Al painted of him.  The man got into trouble with his landlord, I was told, because he was a first-class hoarder.  His apartment was apparently piled to the rafters with his “collectibles” -- and Al’s paintings.  Al passed away and I never heard the outcome of his patron’s apartment problem.  I always wondered why the man wanted so many portraits of himself and why Al kept painting them, even though he was getting paid each time.  I’m sure the money came in handy.  But “no mas” is my usual reaction after painting the same face just a couple of times.

The point of introducing Al into my musings is that he gave up painting by natural light in his home studio at the suggestion of his friend Hananiah Harari (1912-2000), a well-known painter and popular teacher.  I once watched Harari paint a demonstration portrait at the Art Students League and was very impressed by how casually he went about capturing an excellent likeness of the model with a simple palette and a  direct painting method, with absolutely no gimmicks or drama involved.  Harari’s unusual name, by the way, was invented by his step-father, who thought it would be better suited for an “important artist” than his birth name, Richard Falk Goldman, according to a Wikipedia account that says a citation is needed for this tidbit.  

Harari told Al to forego painting by natural light and turn his setup around to paint by artificial light so he could back up more.  Al needed a lot of light to paint by in his later years, so he mounted eight of those long daylight fluorescent tubes vertically on a board, which he attached high up on a stand with wheels to easily adjust the angle of light.

I’ve also painted portraits under artificial light a few times in my home studio, using the original three-light fixture on the ceiling in the center of the room to light both the model and my canvas, and it worked out just fine, in fact far better than when I have tried to devise some other artificial light setup. With the sitter’s back to the darkened windows on the short wall, there is plenty of space behind me to back up to see what I’m doing.  I don’t know why I didn’t just give up painting people by natural light like Al did and use this overhead lighting all the time.  I guess it’s because of that plethora of character faults of mine that I alluded to above.

I painted Veronika under this light more than 20 years ago in two evening sessions of about two hours each, if I remember correctly.  What a wonderful and beautiful creature she was.  And she had such a perfect complexion.  I asked her to wear her leather jacket, which she accessorized with that lovely floral scarf tied neatly around her swan-like neck.  She was an excellent model and knew how to put together a very paintable ensemble.  Veronika was from Germany and an artist herself.  She had a husband living somewhere in Spain.  Or was he an ex-husband?  I don’t remember.  We chatted amiably while I painted.  I can’t remember what we talked about so long ago, but I remember how much fun it was to paint her and how nice it was to receive her flattering comment about the finished product.

I found Veronika when she was modeling in the late 1980s at Joe Catuccio's beloved basement drawing center on Greene Street in Soho, which was called “The Project of Living Artists.”  The setting was an immense live/work space that never received the light of day.  Joe slept behind a screen in a back corner and created his mural-size, boldly expressionist paintings in the huge workspace, where the drawing sessions were held evenings and weekends for 26 years, from 1971 to 1997.  The place was reeking with bohemian-artist atmosphere, not to mention sometimes as many as 12 cats roaming around foraging for food in the artists’ belongings they had placed on the floor beside their chairs while they were drawing the models.  Everybody in New York who was into life drawing back then probably has fond memories of Joe’s place, although I have met some spoilsports who said they couldn’t draw there because of the cats.  

I drew at the “Project” on Saturdays and some evenings every summer during the 1980s, a period when my usual drawing venue, the Art Students League, did not have open classes for members on weekends.  I loved drawing at Joe’s place.  I loved the casual, carefree, counter-culture tone that Joe had established through his art, his lifestyle, and his burly, soft-spoken presence.  He was always broke, but he scraped by somehow, doing odd jobs, like working for a moving company when necessary.  I contributed a little extra to the cause by always purchasing a cup of his fairly decent percolator coffee and a stale piece of coffeecake served up from his little kitchenette during the breaks. 

The models that posed at Joe’s place often seemed more interesting to me than the standard art school models I was accustomed to drawing.  Some of the “Project” models posed for a lark, like one famous woman writer I chatted with briefly, or because they were penniless at the time, like a female pop icon.  Robert Speller, an ex-dancer, booked all the models for Joe and some of the downtown art schools and independent drawing groups around the city for many years.  When a model didn’t show up, he would often substitute.  Speller played a very important role in keeping all those drawing venues supplied with models.  He was a true professional in a job that is too often left to disconnected amateurs at the full-time art schools.  And he was an excellent model himself. 

Joe moved his “Project” drawing center to Williamsburg in Brooklyn in 1997 when he was finally forced out of his basement rental space in Soho as a consequence of the booming real estate market in Manhattan.   The New York Times wrote an article about Joe and his “Project” in 1994.   You can find that article and information about Joe’s drawing center online.  And here is a link to his artwork: http://www.newyorkartworld.com/gallery/catuccio2.html.  The New York Times also wrote about Robert Speller’s art modeling career a couple of times and you can read those articles online as well.  I think I’ll write a separate blog post about my friend Al Herr at some point.  I never saw Veronika again after she posed so sweetly for that portrait.  I wonder how she got on with her life and art.   

With the passing years, I’m often awash in hazy, melancholic memories, and don’t even know how I got on with my own life and art.  But I’m pretty sure I didn’t have a plan.

Albert Herr, Courtroom Sketch

Drawings of Robert Speller, late 1980s

Z is for Zinnias

Zinnias and Onions, Oil on Canvas, 20 by 24 in.

Zinnia Painting described below, Oil on Canvas, 20 by 16 in.

I’ve gotten into a habit of painting pictures of locally grown flowers in the summer, and right now zinnias are in season and being sold at the farmers’ markets near my home studio on Manhattan’s fashionable Upper West Side, a painter’s paradise in The Year of Our Lord 2014, and home to throngs of artists who congregate in the local sushi bars to share trade secrets every evening after an invigorating day painting the urban landscape en plein air.

Two Saturdays ago, around 8:30 a.m., I walked 10 blocks south to the popular Greenmarket that sets up on Thursdays and Saturdays opposite Lincoln Center in Richard Tucker Square, which is actually a small triangular traffic island on Broadway, to see what flowers were available to paint that day.  What follows is a tedious account of a trivial pursuit that occurs with regularity in my humdrum existence.  It’s easier to write a thousand words than to paint a picture. 

Zinnias were being sold by two farms with stalls next to each other.  One of the farms had a dozen or more big plastic buckets jam-packed with large bouquets of zinnias for $6 each, but the zinnias appeared a little bedraggled.  They looked much fresher when I passed by the market on Thursday afternoon on my usual trek down Broadway to the Art Students League on West 57th Street to draw in the late afternoon life sketch class.  I spent about 20 minutes mulling over the selection, getting very little inspiration from the combinations of yellow, orange, red, and light and dark shades of violet in each bouquet.  One large bunch was comprised of a dozen bright yellow zinnias.  I gave that one quite a bit of attention, but decided it would be tough to assemble an attractive still life composition with all that yellow.  There is a lot of truth to something Degas once said, “What a horrible thing yellow is.”  There weren’t enough off-white zinnias in the bouquets to suit my taste either.

At the market stall next door, a young woman creates smaller bouquets on the spot for $5 apiece, so I “impulsively” bought one that looked promising, even though the fresh-looking zinnias were accompanied by stalks of snapdragons in complementary colors.  I have trouble painting the small, amorphous forms of snapdragons.  And it’s difficult to get the flower maven to custom-make an arrangement for me – she has her own way of doing things.  Besides, what do I expect for just five bucks? 

With the flowers now in hand, I wanted to hop on the M104 Broadway bus, which lets me off right in front of my apartment building.  But I didn’t see one coming, so I walked back to my apartment, greatly concerned, as always, that I was shortening the life of these fragile cut flowers by not getting them back in water right away. 

When I got home I cut the stems a bit and put the zinnias in a water-filled glass vase until I decided that this bouquet might look good in my recently acquired and somewhat unusual Japanese coffeepot with a quaintly decorated, flared base.  This turned out to be a big mistake.  But these flowers aren’t going to last long and you have to make decisions quickly.  I threw in some ice cubes in the pot and moved from the kitchen sink to my west/northwest natural light studio in the former bedroom of my apartment.  I plunked the vase down on the ledge of my upturned model stand, which I had draped with a gray cloth that kind of went with the gray background cloth I chose to pin on the wall behind the arrangement.

The ledge of that upturned model stand has lately been the primary staging area for my still life setups.  The sheetrock wall about 18 inches behind the stand is a good surface for accepting push pins to try out different-colored background draperies.  I’m a little depressed about this new use for my model stand, which I built because I love painting faces and thought I might get a little portrait business going when I sacrificed my life to painting years ago. That didn’t materialize.  And the older I get, the less inclined I am to wheedle and cajole people into posing for me.  That never worked for me, anyway.  As it often happened, the only people who wanted to be painted by me were people I didn’t necessarily want to paint.  But sometimes that resulted in a very good painting, so what do I know.  And I simply could not afford to pay for private models on a regular basis.  I’m reminded of Winslow Homer’s comment upon fleeing urban society for the desolate Maine coast when he got older.  “Leave rocks for your old age – they’re easy,” he told a student artist in 1907.  I’ll bet Homer didn’t waste his time painting zinnias.

The gray background cloth I chose for my zinnia painting gradually shifts from cool to warm gray without my permission as the sun heads west.  The important thing is getting the cut flowers down on canvas quickly while they are as fresh as possible, considering how far they have to travel in an urban environment.  If you are lucky, you can always harmonize any background color through trial and error with admixtures of the various flower colors, painting into and around the bouquet while the paint is still wet.

I did two paintings from this bouquet.  I got going on the first one at 10:30 that Saturday morning, about an hour after buying them at the market.  That’s really too late to complete the work in one three- or four-hour session under the same light conditions.  The natural light in my studio is pretty constant from about 8 or 9 a.m. until about 1 or 2 p.m.  But the afternoon sun gives my still life setup a much warmer look, with dark, crisp shadows, which looks great, but I don’t have the energy to start another canvas.  That’s why painters who work alla prima love true north light studios.  They can paint for longer periods without worrying about the colors and values changing dramatically.   I have read that some terrific painters like Sorolla and one of his students, Aldro T. Hibbard, were known to paint for hours outdoors on the same scene and then summon all their creative energy to complete their paintings with dramatic late afternoon light effects.  “Now, Estevenson, now is the time to paint,” a student named Stevenson recalled Sorolla exclaiming at the hour of reckoning.  That’s one painting “demonstration” I would love to have witnessed.

Cut flowers can last a long time unless you intend to paint them.  Then they start wilting and taking on different shapes immediately just to spite you, so you have to paint rapidly.  I’m familiar with a lot of different approaches to painting flowers from life.  Some artists paint the vase and surroundings first and add the flowers later, or vice versa.   As I’ve written before, Fantin-Latour painted the flowers against a background color he prepared the night before, and then painted like blazes on the flowers he had just cut moments before from his backyard garden, finishing them mostly in one session.  He then could complete the vase and touch up the flowers a bit at a comfortable pace the next day.   Some artists do a careful drawing of the design and paint one flower at a time.  Some take a flower and turn it several different ways to fill out the arrangement.  Some write books on how to paint flowers their way.  Some artists stoop to painting silk flowers.  Some even copy photographs of flowers, I’m told, as Cezanne’s dealer Vollard said was done by “the father of modern painting.”   And take note of what one of my teachers said about photographs of paintings when you look at the images of my zinnia paintings displayed with this blog post:  "A bad painting photographs better and a good painting photographs worse," said the late Frank Mason.  I don't think he was talking about just plain bad photography, though.  

Lots of determined realist painters avoid painting flowers from life altogether because they are restless models that can’t hold a pose.  It’s quite a challenge to figure out how to avoid a real disaster when painting flowers alla prima. 

I learned to paint directly from nature by working pretty much over the whole canvas without a preliminary drawing on paintings up to 24 by 30 inches or so.  This approach suits my impatient personality.  With turpentine-thinned oil paint, I indicate the approximate boundaries of the entire setup on the canvas.  The color of the paint I sketch with doesn’t matter much to me,  although it is usually raw or burnt umber.  I then move from flower to flower to estimate their relative positions by holding a brush handle at the proper angle.  When the rhythm of the design takes shape, I start washing in a thin local color for each of the flowers in their approximate shape before building up the paint.  I like to work from light to dark colors, hoping I can get by with using fewer brushes that way.   After that, I tend to forget what comes next.  I’m too busy painting to conjure up any real-time analysis. 

I sometimes wish I could be as analytical as other painters, but the act of painting for me is more of a spontaneous emotional experience than a meditation, and I can’t remember what I did from one painting to the next. 

On that score, many artists often have no idea how they produced a successful painting.  I can thank the eminently quotable Degas again for supporting that observation. "Only when he no longer knows what he is doing does the painter do good things," said Degas.  I’ve known a few artists who find it extremely difficult to copy their own work when necessary because they can’t remember how they painted it.  A portrait painter friend was asked to recreate a woman’s portrait he had painted many years ago so the second of the woman’s two daughters could also have this wonderful portrait of their late mother. He said it was a most difficult assignment.

The first painting I did of these zinnias is just a formal arrangement, front and center, without any serious design effort, other than initially shuffling the flowers until the arrangement looked balanced and harmonious, at least to me.  As when painting all my subjects, I try my best to get the flowers to appear to exist in the same atmospheric space they occupy in my studio.  In my moderately impressionistic way of painting, I suggest the most obvious details, rather than try to render all the petals perfectly, which is really a tedious operation and beyond my patience and skill level.  There’s not much to say about this process.  It’s all just pushing the paint around to make the flowers on canvas look and feel right in the atmosphere that surrounds them.  I painted the zinnias pretty completely in the first three-hour session, but I had some trouble with the snapdragons.  I was pretty sure their plump little bell-like shapes wouldn’t change much in 24 hours, so I left them unfinished for the second painting.  But the next day, they had veered out of position in such a way that I was forced to invent a larger shape for the snapdragon stalk on the right to balance the composition.

Flower painting is hard enough, but painting that fancy coffeepot really drove me crazy.  The frieze at the top and bottom of the vase is a delicate floral design that is indistinct from my vantage point a couple of feet away.  I worked very hard to keep it as restrained as possible so it wouldn’t dominate the composition.  And I repositioned and repainted the body of the pot to have it straight on rather than at a slight angle as it was initially, which I hadn’t noticed until the second day.  It just didn’t look right probably because I was painting it as if I were viewing it head-on.  The bluish-white body of the coffeepot was giving off a beautiful glow and it was exciting to lay in the color with a big brush fully loaded with paint.  It looked fantastic until I had to subtly indicate the bulbous segments of the porcelain façade.  I threw in a snappy highlight and signed the painting, feeling pretty good about my effort.  But I then noticed that the symmetry was way off on the right side of the flared base.  As Sargent said, most of us have a bias to one side and painters should always have a plumb line handy to deal with symmetries.  I think a lot of us just paint some junk to camouflage one difficult side of a symmetrical object to avoid grappling endlessly to get it to seem right to our “biased” eyes.  Some artists like to draw such things perfectly before beginning to paint, but painting around a careful drawing is a technique I’m not much interested in.

After quite a number of tries to improve the symmetry, I was ready to give it up and come back for a fourth session -- way too much time for me to spend on a simple still life.  I was getting very agitated.  But about an hour before I headed off to draw at the League again in the late afternoon, I became frantically obsessed with this problem.  I had to find a solution.  I took my paints out of the freezer again and threw down the flower at the center right of the bouquet to hide the right side of the flared base of the pot so I could sleep that night.  

The paint was still pretty wet, but there was no way I was going to wait for it to dry in a couple of days to calmly add another flower over the dried surface or come up with another solution to my problem in the clear light of day.  So I really juiced up the cold paint with my trusty half-oil medium of stand oil and turps so the flower would stand up without becoming like Dali’s painting of watches, The Persistence of Memory. After 30 minutes of panicked hard labor I was finally through with this one.  I had said all I wanted to, and to be honest, all I could say.  What a relief!   Now my sun was shining again.  And later that afternoon I had one of my best life drawing sessions of the summer at the League.

The next day I took another newly acquired pot, put a few of the surviving zinnias in it, added an onion that’s been lurking at the end of the ledge for about two months now, and painted this small still life basically in one session.

Today at the farmer’s market on Columbus Avenue at West 77th Street it was cosmos from one vendor and two sunflowers from another.  I must be crazy to keep torturing myself this way.  Point me in the direction of those Maine rocks.  Oh, Lord, I'm on my way!

The Second Painting, Oil on Canvas, 14 by 12 in.

Oil on Canvas, 18 by 15 in.

Oil on Canvas, 24 by 18 in.

The Rings of Denmark

Laurits Andersen Ring (1854-1933), Sommerdag ved Roskilde Fjord, 1900, Oil on Canvas, 37.4 by 56.7 in., Randers Kunstmuseum, Denmark

L.A.Ring, At Breakfast, The Painter’s wife, Sigrid Kahler, 1898. This beautiful painting is in the collection of the National Museum in Stockholm, Sweden, which does not publicly disclose the dimensions of the work online.  How strange!

Ole Ring (1902-1972), The Still River, Oil on Canvas, 14 ¼ by 20 in., Private Collection

Ole Ring, A Sunny Day in Hellested, Oil on Canvas,13 by 19 ¾ in ., Private Collection

If you’ve been making art since you were knee-high to a grasshopper and decide for some peculiar reason to become a painter when you reach the age of consent, it’s advantageous to have a father or mother in the business so you don’t think it’s such a dumb idea to begin with.  Throughout the history of art, there have been numerous painter dynasties, including the Holbeins and the Breughels, Elder and Younger.  The late Richard V. Goetz (1915-1991), who taught painting at The Art Students League, my daycare center, and his wife, Edith, also a painter, had six children, and four of them became artists themselves. 

In days of yore, when painting was considered a highly skilled craft with rules and regulations, lots of kids were apprenticed to the trade through family connections of one sort or another.  Even that eccentric genius Vincent van Gogh took inspiration and instruction from a near-relative, Anton Mauve, a cousin-in-law.  Van Gogh revered Mauve (1838–88), who introduced him to painting in both oil and watercolor and lent him money to set up a studio before they had a falling out when Vincent took up with a pregnant prostitute.  Mauve apparently thought that was a bit too much, so he ended his association with Vincent.

Anton Mauve (1838-88), Morning Ride on the Beach, 1876, oil on canvas, 17.7 by 27.6 in, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.  Years ago I copied a print of this brilliantly composed, dramatic painting, and a collector liked my copy enough to pay me a few dollars for it.

Right now I’ve been thinking about the two Rings, Laurits Andersen Ring (1854-1933) and his son, Ole Ring (1902-1972), both excellent Danish painters you don’t hear much about in America unless, perhaps, you follow the art auction circuit. 

Laurits was one of the foremost Danish painters at the turn of the 20th century.  A convert to atheism, he is credited with introducing symbolism and social realism to Denmark’s art world, two styles of painting that he juxtaposed throughout his long and productive painting career.  His painting Summer Day by Roskilde Fjord, which is in the Randers Kunstmuseum in Denmark, is considered one of the masterpieces of Danish culture.  There is an extensive collection of his paintings and drawings in the National Gallery of Denmark in Copenhagen and there are there are examples of his work at practically every Danish art museum.

As with so many of the wonderful 19th Century and early 20th Century painters, there are a lot of interesting tales to be told regarding Laurits Ring’s private life, just behind the magic curtain of his marvelous paintings.  These hidden stories wear you out in the retelling, even if you are just copying Wikipedia entries.  But they are worth the effort for the most part because they reveal the often surprising humanity of  these great painters, while your own life is as boring as toast, spent mostly laboring clumsily on your own canvases and wishing you could paint half as well as they could..

L.A. Ring was born Laurits Andersen in the village of Ring in southern Zealand, the largest of Denmark’s islands where the Capital of Copenhagen is located.  Ring's father was a wheelmaker and carpenter and his mother a farmer’s daughter.  At the age of 15, Laurits was apprenticed to a housepainter because his older brother was destined to take over their father’s business.  In 1873, the opportunity to go to Copenhagen arrived when a local merchant hired Laurits to do some paintwork in the Capital.  While in Copenhagen, Laurits studied painting privately for two years and in 1875 was accepted at the Danish Academy of Arts.  Ring disliked the Academy’s strict classical studies in drawing but stayed on for three years.  He also studied briefly with one of my idols, the great Norwegian painter Peder Severin Kroyer, whom I wrote about in an earlier post.

In 1881, Laurits Anderson and his friend, the painter Hans Andersen from the village of Brændekilde, decided to take the names of their native villages in order to avoid confusion at their joint exhibition.   So Laurits became L. A. Ring, and Hans became H. A. Brendekilde, who happens to be another excellent Danish Realist.  

Ring became increasingly interested in the difficulties of the poor and social justice for the lower classes during a period of political turmoil in Denmark in the early 1880s.  The Prime Minister, J.B.S. Estrup, had unilaterally suspended the democratic decision-making processes laid down in the Danish Constitution to enact some social and financial reforms.  Ring was active in the "Rifle movement", a revolutionary group of students taking up arms training in preparation for a rebellion.  But the opposition forces reached a consensus with Estrup’s initiatives and there was never any civil violence.

The young painter had other things on his mind as well.  In Copenhagen he became a close friend of the family of lawyer and amateur painter Alexander Wilde. He spent Christmas and summers with the family and formed a “very close” friendship with Wilde's wife, Johanne.  Ring and Mrs. Wilde exchanged “frequent and intimate” letters and he painted many tender portraits of her, but nevertheless she remained faithful to her husband.  Realizing the hopelessness of his passion for Johanne, he broke off his relationship with the Wilde family and became severely depressed, as always happens in these cases of unrequited love, I’m led to believe.

L.A. Ring, Johanne Wilde at her Loom, 1892, Oil on Canvas

Word got around.  In 1894, Ring was used as a model for a character in the novel Night Watch (Nattevagt) by the Danish author Henrik Pontoppidan, an old friend of his. In the novel, Ring is the unflattering character Thorkild Drehling, a painter and failed revolutionary, who was in love with his best friend's wife.  Ring apparently did not object to the unflattering depiction, but he was offended that Pontoppidan would publicly divulge his infatuation with Johanne Wilde in that way.  Deeply hurt by Pontoppidan's betrayal of confidence, Ring broke off this friendship as well, never giving an explanation.  These artists’ types are super-sensitive, aren’t they?

After a year of painting in Italy, Ring recovered his composure and started working in 1895 on a series of paintings with fellow painter Sigrid Kahler as a model. She was the daughter of ceramic artist Herman Kähler.  Ring married Kähler in 1896 when she was only 21 and he was 42.  The couple had three children, including Ole, their painter son, before Kähler died of lung cancer in 1923 at the age of 49.

Once he became a family man, Ring seems to have given up sowing any more wild oats.  Now it was just boring medals and honors for this Great Dane, and astute analyses of his painting themes by hard-working art critics and historians who get paid to explore such things.  Ring’s decision to become an atheist apparently had a profound effect on his work and “he began to explore motifs and symbolism that contrasted forces of life and death,” according to a contributor to Ring’s Wikipedia entry. “Others have interpreted the drive towards unsentimental realism as an expression of Ring's atheist life stance,” the author continued.  Ring’s biographer Peter Hertz neatly summarized the painter’s  life and work:  “His oeuvre remains as his life and essence: The still water of profound depth.”

L.A. Ring’s son, Ole, painted similar subjects in a style highly influenced by that of his father.  There are lots of images of his highly accomplished work online and many of his paintings have been sold at auction.  That’s all I know about Ole Ring, the son of L.A. Ring.  And I’m so happy about that, between you, me and the lamppost.

L.A. Ring, Walking in a Rye Field, 1905, Oil on Canvas, 27 ¼ by 22 ½ in., Private Collection

L.A. Ring, Village Street in Baldersbrønde, Oil on Canvas, 1905, Aarhus Kunstmuseum, Denmark

L.A. Ring, The Artist’s Wife by Lamplight, 1898, Oil on Canvas, 68 by 87 cm, National Gallery of Denmark, Copenhagen

Ole Ring, Ugledige, Denmark, Oil on Canvas, 11 by 16 in., Private Collection