Signing Off

Ernest Chiriacka (1913-2010),  Paperback Cover for Model’s Daughter, by Charles X. Wolffe

Ernest “Darcy” Chiriacka, paperback cover for The Future Mr. Dolan, by Charles Gorham, 1959, gouache on board, 15.5 by 13.5 in.

Ernest Chiriacka

Ernest Chiriacka, Casweck Galleries, Sante Fe, NM

Ernest Chiriacka, Esquire Magazine Calendar, February 1954, swallace99 at www.ipernity.com

Ernest Chiriacka, Casweck Galleries, Sante Fe, NM

Ernest Chiriacka, Landscape, Casweck Galleries, Sante Fe, NM

Various signatures of Ernest Chiriacka, www.pulpartists.com

I hate having to sign my paintings.

Maybe some painters can’t wait to sign off on their creations with a triumphal flourish because they truly believe all of their paintings are masterpieces.  But I expect those would be painters who fancy they are painting for prosperity and posterity, both strangers to me in my desolate world of forsaken opportunity.

All of us would probably paint better pictures if we never had to sign them.  How often do we wish we had a chance to “touch up” a painting that is now on display in a private or public collection, warts and all?  And I wonder how many of those irritating painters who like to boast of selling their paintings “hot off the easel” to impress their less confident artist friends with their artistic prowess later regret such foolishness?  I can recall selling only one “still-wet” painting, and that was to a gallery in Arkansas that I was hoping to connect with, which I did for the short time it took for the gallery owner to suggest I paint a few pictures she could actually sell.  But I certainly know the feeling of remorse for not being more critical of my own work before signing it and sending it off to see the world.

We often like to say we could have done better if we had more time or the proper surface to paint on, etcetera.  But once you sign off on a painting, you are expected to keep your mouth shut and smile when your slapdash effort is praised to the high heavens by a collector with his checkbook out.

I’m reminded of some advice passed along by an old illustrator friend, Harry Barton (1908-2001).  Harry was a good friend of a very prolific and successful illustrator, Ernest “Darcy” Chiriacka (1913-2010), who attended The Art Students League and the National Academy of Design, and spent four years studying under the great illustrator and teacher Harvey Dunn (1884-1952) at the Grand Central School of Art.  My friend Harry was tall and good-looking, and often posed for the male characters in Ernie’s pulp fiction cover illustrations.  Harry told me that Ernie used to say you should “never let a painting get out of your studio too soon.”  I couldn’t agree more with that sensible advice.

The variety of ways Ernest “Darcy” Chiriacka (born Anastassios Kyriakakos) signed his work provides an interesting case study on what I personally consider to be a painting’s coup de grace.  I suspect a lot of the great painters of the past privately held such a view about signing their paintings, but thankfully they didn’t throw all of their paintings out the window (a la Cezanne) or burn them in the potbelly stoves in their studios (a la Monet), as we know many revered painters of the past were wont to do.

Unfortunately, I don’t have access to a potbelly stove, so I take masterpieces I’m sick of looking at off the stretchers, fold them over and over into relatively small squares, stomp on them to compact them a bit, strap them with masking tape, put them in a plastic grocery bag and place them in the garbage cans off the service elevators on my floor in an apartment building on Manhattan’s fashionable Upper West Side.  If you don’t dispose of your trashed paintings carefully, they are liable to be salvaged by some scavenger and put on sale in the local junk shop or auctioned off on eBay.  You don’t want that to happen, do you? The saying that “one man’s trash is another man’s treasure” is certainly true in the art business.  One of my artist friends, another big city dweller, used to cut her unwanted paintings into pieces with a scissors, as did I, until she learned that a neighbor took one of the pieces out of a trash can and framed it.

Although he is not that well known, Ernest Chiriacka’s work is well represented on the Internet.   His daughter, Athene Westergaard, maintains exclusive representation of her father’s work at her Casweck Galleries in Sante Fe, New Mexico http://casweckgalleries.com/.  Chiriacka often signed his paintings “Darcy,” his childhood nickname familiarly used by friends and family.  On the gallery website, she recalls that "Darcy once told me that Harvey Dunn never had much to say about his work till the cover of his first pulp was displayed and Harvey's mouth just dropped."

There is biographical information about Ernie and images of his published artwork on art auction websites and at several websites that focus on pulp fiction, including http://killercoversoftheweek.blogspot.com/2010/04/good-bye-darcy.html  and http://www.pulpartists.com/Chiriacka.html.   In the first link, J. Kingston Pierce, who edits a blog on crime fiction called Rap Sheet, displays an impressive 55 pulp fiction covers created by Ernie.  Pierce assigns those covers to a category he aptly calls “Art Noir.”  And David Saunders, in his Field Guide to Wild American Pulp Artists, notes that Ernie’s “pulp covers were usually left unsigned, and he used a variety of pseudonyms, such as Acka, Darcy, and A.D.  He is given printed credit as ‘Ernest Chiriacka’ on the contents pages of only a few Ace Magazine titles.”

I imagine that illustrators like Ernie, whose clients ranged from “high-class” magazines like Collier’s, The Saturday Evening Post and Esquire to publishers of salacious pulp fiction and pin-up calendars, might have wanted to use an alias on a lot of their work for publications that were frowned upon in polite circles.  So-called fine artists wouldn’t seem to have that particular problem, but our signatures often go through many stages until we settle on the one that we feel most comfortable with.  By the way, given today’s congested playing field for artists, if you put a date along with your signature, you will probably never sell the painting or get into a juried show, unless the painting was created last week.  And I’m sure most of us fudge a bit about the date our paintings were created for that very reason.

Scholarly research has probably been done on the subject of artists’ signatures, so I won’t bother delving into that undoubtedly impressive mountain of evidence – way too much interesting trouble in that line of inquiry for a dilettante blogger.   Suffice it to say that the very first thing to contemplate is the “look” you fancy for your signature.  I don’t know why, but most painters don’t seem to like to sign their paintings the same way they sign their rent checks or mortgage payments, if they aren’t doing online banking, that is.  I know I don’t sign the same way because I can’t handle a brush well enough to accomplish moderately cursive strokes in the medium of oil paint.  It was hard enough to come up with a simple “R. Holden” in the first place, admittedly not a very creative signature, but I went with the crowd to adopt that conventional first-name initial and full last name solution to this vexing problem for painters.

And just for the record, our signatures on our paintings are considered “autographs” by those who know more than you and I do about language.  Wikipedia informs:  A signature may be confused with an autograph, which is chiefly an artistic signature. This can lead to confusion when people have both an autograph and signature and as such some people in the public eye keep their signatures private whilst fully publishing their autograph.

So we have many options to consider for our signatures, or autographs, unless you fancy yourself a follower of, say, Bouguereau, and decide to sign your painting in a similar manner, which is not uncommon for those who admire a master’s paintings and adopt that artist’s signature style for their own.  I’ve noted that some contemporary portrait painters choose signatures comprising their first, middle and last names, as did the well-known portrait painters they strive to emulate.

Should our signature be handwritten or printed, full name or just first name or last, initials, capitals or capitals and lowercase, in black paint or complementary color, etcetera?  I’d like a stencil or a rubber stamp to sign the same way each time.  I can never get the same consistency of paint, and no matter what brush I use, the paint never flows the exact same way each time. To avoid that problem, one painter I know signs in pencil, presumably before he varnishes the painting.  A couple of times I’ve used one of those pointed permanent black markers, which is great for a consistent look, but you can’t erase it to change the position if you have second thoughts.

Painters in the old days often seemed to just pick up any old brush they were painting with and drag it through wet paint, making a mess of their signatures.  And I’ve occasionally seen their paintings with two signatures on the surface.  I do best when the paint is thoroughly dry.  But then it’s easier for forgers to erase my signature and replace it with that of Ignace Henri Jean Théodore Fantin-Latour to significantly enhance the painting’s value.

Placement is a major concern for many of us when signing off on a painting.  I tend to believe it should be placed at the top or bottom of the painting, anyplace away from dead center, in a style, size, color and position that is in balance with the elements of the painting -- and unobtrusive.  I’ve found that the most punctilious cursive signatures often reside on inferior paintings while some of the most careless signatures are affixed to some of the greatest paintings I’ve ever seen.  There are a lot of examples of famous artist signatures on the Internet that are barely legible, and I’m sure you are familiar with many of them.

Why is signing a painting so annoying?  Well, essentially because it is an afterthought to a very enjoyable and complete performance.  You believe you have carefully designed and concluded your painting, with all the elements in perfect balance from north to south and east to west.  Now you have to figure out where to stick that damn signature without disturbing your perceived perfection.  I must admit, though, that sometimes a properly placed signature can save a painting that needed a little help in achieving the balance I'm always striving for.

I paint mostly still lifes in all manner of configurations as the spirit moves me, and maybe that's why I have so much trouble with signature placement.  I think landscape and portrait painters, and artists who adopt a consistent and compelling design theme, don't worry as much about placement as I do. 

At any rate, I spend way too much time thinking about where to sign my paintings.  There are times when I am nearly finished with a painting that I think of the perfect spot for my signature.  But often that spot isn’t where I eventually sign the painting.  And if you sign a painting and later decide you need to put a kumquat in the corner to balance the elements you have to erase your signature and find another spot for it.

I’ve heard that one bravura painter used to sign his name on the canvas before beginning a plein air demonstration on Cape Ann in Massachusetts.  Some painters sign their paintings so boldly that it is the first thing you notice about the painting, and that signature may be the most creative thing about the work.  What an insult to the painting!  Even if signed prominently, the signature should be in a value and tone that doesn’t draw attention to itself.  I’ve spent a lot of time redoing my signature on some paintings to finally get it to look appropriately inconspicuous.   Sometimes I’ll press it with a clean piece of newsprint to temper it.

Despite my own misgivings, signatures are a big deal for collectors, who are quick to notice if you forget to sign one of your paintings, because they know they won’t be able to auction off your masterpiece later without your trademark signature, although a signature is by no means a guarantee of authenticity, as the history of art forgeries clearly demonstrates.

Why do I hate to sign my paintings?  Well, lack of self-esteem could be a major factor.  Years ago, a shrewd bargain hunter who prowled the outdoor art shows in Greenwich Village bought a few of my paintings for peanuts.  He told me I always had some element in my paintings that was a bit off, not exactly an encouraging observation for a beginning artist.  One day he came to my home studio and left with a bag precariously overflowing with my flawed creations.  But I feel he was right about my work, then and now.  Years later, this same collector approached me with a request to repair some minor damage to one of the $50 paintings he had acquired.  When I said he could probably find someone else to do the work, he tried to convince me that “only I” could repair the work admirably!   Considering his enduring critique from years ago, I was happy to refuse his request for that repair job. 

So now I’ve exorcised my bedtime story about artists’ signatures on paintings, boys and girls.  It’s not worth much, but I’m signing off on it anyway.  I have to.