My Hall of Fame

Mathieu Laca, Mrs. X, 2010

Fame! What a strange concept! I sincerely believe that I never met an artist who didn’t secretly desire fame and fortune; quite normal when you think that the vast majority of artists are not sure they’ll have something to eat tomorrow. Warhol believed that everybody is supposed to be famous for fifteen minutes in his life; but, that’s not the type of cheap short-lasting fame we’re all dreaming of, artist or not. At the same time, it is rather common to meet artists that seem to be ashamed to even pronounce that four-letter-word. If fame inevitably brings fortune, like most people believe, can I remain the same authentic and incorruptible Me with all that cash flowing out of my pockets and all those paparazzi peeping through the keyhole of my bathroom? Will I grow long and curled whiskers with flies on the tips? Or will I get fat and bald and start wearing funny looking Gaultier-like striped tee shirts and baggy shorts? For most of us, fame is attractive and scary at the same time. Odd, isn’t it?

Like everybody else, I have my own Hall of Fame. I have my own collection of people I admire, those models I envy, and I sometimes wonder how they became famous.

In a recent post on this blog, I wrote about Jean Cocteau. This poet, novelist, visual artist, playwright and filmmaker stands at the top of my list. With thousands of poems, five novels, more than twenty plays, a few dozen essays, ten films, five scenarios, four dialogues for films, tons of drawings, ceramics and frescos, countless hours of recordings, speeches and public performances, I believe he deserves all my respect. I often wondered if the man ever ate and slept!

Very high on the same list stands Pier Paolo Pasolini. He wrote more or less fifty books. Two dozen films. Recordings, speeches, public performances and interviews. Did he ever eat and sleep?

Hold on! Stand by! Here it comes! I just love Hildegard Knef! She’s the one who sings the so beautiful "Für mich soll's rote Rosen regnen". 54 films! On my iTunes list, I have 356 of her songs, some with the fresh and clear voice of a young singer, some with the slightly out-of-tune tired older woman, still the same sensuous and appealing flashy artist. Her life was not an easy one, believe me; that's why she called her autobiography Der geschenkte Gaul - Bericht aus einem Leben (The Gift Horse - Report of a Life). But she never stopped creating. Time to eat and sleep?

I could go on like that for pages because my Hall of Fame is very long. There are so many great artists worth being admired. But every time I think about one of them, I always end up asking: “But, what about eating and sleeping? They gave so much! They loved so much!”

So, maybe that’s what fame is all about: giving and loving. Maybe Fame and Fortune don’t necessarily go together. Maybe it’s true that anybody can have, not only fifteen minutes of fame, but a whole lifetime at the Pantheon as long as he accepts a life made of nothing else but love and generosity. Quite an agenda!

That’s why I have such a faith in my beloved husband’s future. His entire life is made of nothing else but work, love and generosity.

The only thing I must be very aware of is that he never forgets to eat and to sleep. Quite a job, believe me!

Comeau

The Privileges of Beauty

Mathieu Laca, Awakening, 2009

When I started to be genuinely interested in art, the first great artist that haunted my days and nights was the unrivaled poet, Jean Cocteau. The fascination that became a real passion over the years never faded. Of course, I was very proud that our names were alike; I saw that detail that might sound pretty trivial to everybody else as some kind of a sign; a sign of what, I didn’t exactly know, but that sign made me happy and that was enough.

So I started to read everything he wrote, at least everything I could find. Later, I started to discover his drawings, his paintings, his sculptures and his films and finally, I read every biography of him I could find. Nowadays,  I can’t read or look at one of his works without being intensely moved. “It is one of the privileges of the poet to be able to resurrect, at any moment and in any circumstances, the fabulous creatures that lurk in our collective unconscious, without anyone being astonished at his taking such a risk,” wrote Annie Guédras in her book Jean Cocteau, Erotic drawings.

I must confess that, for one, seeing those “fabulous creatures that lurk in our collective unconscious” being “resurrected” is a need I wouldn’t be able to live without. I must live surrounded by fauns and elves, among fairies and gargoyles; I can’t resist enacting my life with angels and devils, and I know very few human beings as fascinating as the least of all chimeras. I love when that life of mine is nothing less than a wild dream.“The privileges of beauty are enormous. Its power is felt even by those who seem to care the least about it.” (Jean Cocteau, Le Livre blanc)

As far as I am concerned, great artists don’t create beauty; just like Jean Cocteau, great artists ARE beauty for they are a living source that gives birth to all those creatures that make our lives bearable if not permanently happy.

I envy artists. I am always wondering what their life might be. I guess I’ll never know. But, sincerely, I don’t really care. I have that immense privilege of living the second best life after being an artist. I live with an artist. Every night I go to bed, and every day I wake up, I thank whoever might be responsible for that blessing I didn’t even have to ask for. This is the kind of blessing that makes your life a dream and allows you to go through years without ever fearing death because you know you’ll eternally be part of “your” artist’s everlasting fairy tale.

(P.S. Yesterday, I celebrated my seventh wedding anniversary with “my” artist)

Comeau

The Never-Ending Show

Mathieu Laca, The Boudoir, 2011

I guess that every kid would say that his mother is someone very special. I don’t want to brag about mine but she was something between a super clown and a hysterical cheerleader. Once, she asked me if I thought she had any enemies. I instantly said “No!” without hesitation. And I added: “Nobody would dare!” When I was a young kid she was an actress. She had to stop her career when I was six; one day, my father said: “Lucille, you have to choose. It’s either your husband or your career as an actress”. She chose the husband. That’s when my father started to regret his ultimatum and that’s when began my mother’s never-ending show.

She started waking up before everybody else to apply many layers of makeup, adjust her wig (in the seventies, when it was really fashionable, she had something like twelve of them), put on some flashy dress and climb over those super high heels; only then was she ready to start her everyday chores like cleaning the house and cooking tasteless meals.

Once, she had that very big accident with her car. As a matter of fact, she “learned” to drive a car when she was fifty but I never accepted to go anywhere with her if she was driving. She was a real menace. Lucky for her, that day, even if the car was a total wreck, she was not wounded. The accident must have been rather spectacular because the police and the ambulance came. When she told people about the accident, she always finished this way: “It was a terrible experience but, in the end, I was quite lucky because, when the ambulance came, I still had my hat on and my dress wasn’t wrinkled at all”.

In my hometown, everybody knew Lucille. She was some kind of star. Of course, she was always asked to do public appearances. When there was a banquet to celebrate something special, Lucille was the MC. When there was a political meeting, she was the one who introduced the speakers. She sang at church (she had quite a nice voice), she was in charge of tears and laments at the funerals (she could be so pathetic!) and she was satisfied only when she had her daily dose of thunderous applause.

Life was never dull with her around. But at least, I learned one really great thing from her: I learned how great artists operate. Whenever she was preparing something important, she always told me about her plans. Most of the times, I was terrified to learn what she was planning: I was always afraid of the day she would face her Waterloo. Usually, I was begging her not to do what she was planning because it always sounded so over the top. And every time she replied: “Ah!... you only say that because you don’t know these people. Just watch me and you’ll see…” And every time she was right. She knew people. She knew how to pull a tear or a laugh out. She knew how to win applause. She knew how to sow laughter to harvest happiness. She was quite an artist!

That’s how artists operate. They know! How? That’s a gift from some wicked little devil inside. But, they know, that’s all.

They know!

Comeau

The Reign of the Mighty Fears

Mathieu Laca, Eminence, 2010 (private collection)

I am not an artist. I would love to be an artist, but I am not. You don’t decide to be an artist as you decide to be an accountant or a butcher. I love art. I love an artist. Being married to an artist, I am married to art. That’s probably why I married an artist!

Since art is our life, I try to help. I build stretchers, crates; I build frames. Sometimes I build rather elaborate frames that involve carving and gold leafing. That way, I stay in close touch with oil paint and turpentine. These odors are part of our lives and I can’t imagine staying away from them for a very long time.

But nevertheless, I envy artists. I think it is a blessing to be the way they are. When I look at their work, I say to myself: “How lucky they are to be able to create without fear!” As for myself, every time I start a new framing project, I am surrounded by fears. I am afraid I might not be able to make a better frame than the last one. Afraid that the plan I have in my mind might be impossible to carry out. Afraid that the frame might not be appropriate for the painting, too big, too small, too flashy, too dull, too dark, too bright. Afraid that the finished frame, built, sanded, “gessoed”, covered with Armenian bole and gold leaves might just be a quarter of an inch too small, you know the I-forgot-to-add-two-times-the-width-of-the-plank situation? Did you ever ask an artist if he could cut his painting just a quarter of an inch to fit in your frame?

It’s probably because I am not an artist, because I didn’t receive that blessing, because my fears are ruled by the respect I have for art that I get so mad when I see artists being surrounded by fears. Artists might not be rich, they might not be loved by everyone, they might be criticized, hated sometimes, but being artists, they should be free. What’s the purpose of creating if you are not free?

In 1948, Paul-Émile Borduas wrote the “Refus Global”. In this admirable manifesto, he wrote: “And fear in its many forms no longer ruled the land”. Lucky for him he is not with us anymore. How disappointed would he be seeing artists submerged with “fear of prejudice - of public opinion - of persecution - of general reprobation - fear of being alone without God or a society that inevitably isolates us - fear of ourselves - of our brothers - of poverty - fear of the established order - of absurd laws - fear of fresh relations - fear of the surrational - fear of internal drives - fear of opening the floodgates of our faith in man - in the society of the future - fear of anything that might trigger a transforming love”!

How sad it is to hear artists talking about their work and beginning with: “I would love to… but…” More and more, I have the feeling that the world of Art is under the reign of mighty fears. “I would love to paint this or that but I have to eat!” “I would love to paint this or that but nobody will accept to show my work”. We don’t hear anymore about those fabulous revolutions caused by artists daring to show what they feel should be shown. No! We fear bad reactions at a few inoffensive caricatures. We look at priceless works of art being taken away from the walls of government buildings and replaced with cheap royal portraits without puking. We accept that our government treats our artists like shit without saying a word.

Some of us even think that self-censorship might be a virtue.

We paint nudes that are nothing else but eunuchs. And people applaud.

Sickening!

Comeau

Tom Thomson, Home Depot and Dog Pee

Mathieu Laca, Seafood, 2010 (private collection)

Sometimes, I feel like printing a checklist to be distributed to people visiting certain art shows. On that list, you would find words and expressions like “on the fringe, outrageous, atrocious, barbaric, infamous, scandalous, shocking, violent, wicked, disgraceful, extravagant, immoderate, offensive, underground, experimental, graphic, obscene, repulsive, revolting, sickening, gruesome”. Art critics, journalists, bloggers, ordinary visitors could use it to make sure they have plenty of words to describe their reactions.

Of course, this checklist would be useless in “normal galleries”, in galleries where we show “real art”, in galleries where we buy art that we are proud to hang in the living room, art we are proud to show to the neighbors, art that we don’t have to hide when kids come into the room. Art that respects the purest tradition of Tom Thomson and his seven jolly fellows. Flowers, landscapes, kittens, naked bodies with translucent veils that discreetly hide the nipples or the wee-wee, sad clowns, nice portraits in straw hats, windows opened to the sea with a soft breeze blowing in, sunsets, sunrises, seascapes, moonscapes, even blurry abstractions with or without Pollockian drippings, etc.

Here’s an advice to the “real art” connoisseurs: a few days ago, I had to buy wood and went to a nearby renovation center. Right in the middle of the store, there was a whole stack of those paintings, some of them were small enough to be hanged over a living room couch but some were huge. And the prices? Beyond comparison! There is not a single gallery that can compete with those prices.

The same day, while walking with my dog, I went by a nearby church where they had, the day before, one of those huge garage sales where people bring all the garbage they don’t have the guts to throw away. There, right by a pile of green garbage bags, waiting for the truck, was the stuff that nobody wanted to buy. And nobody felt they should bring that stuff back home. And there, on the pile, was a reproduction of a landscape by Tom Thomson. It looked like new! Sadly, my dog took the painting for a fire hydrant.

That’s when I asked myself: shouldn’t all the galleries be “on the fringe”? After all, for everything else, there’s Home Depot*!

* Abstract paintings (104), animals paintings (37), architecture (44), beach and ocean (14), contemporary (298), cuisine (2), dorm and novelty (10), flowers (68), kids art (7), motivational (1). That is 783 pieces to choose from with prices ranging between 20$ and 500$. No gallery can compete with that!

Comeau

Alejandro Jodorowsky's Holy Mountain

Mathieu Laca, Ulysse, 2009

I recently had a total shock when watching for the first time Alejandro Jodorowsky's movie The Holy Mountain. This film is like no other movie. It's simply mind blowing. Jodorowsky uses the language of dreams to create a strange spiritual tale, an initiatic experience like none other. The images are striking. This film expresses the same spirit I try to embody in my paintings such as this one above. The world is turned upside down... only to be revealed.

Looking for the Blue Light

Mathieu Laca, Dream, 2009

Looking at History, it’s fascinating to realize how societies treat their artists. Sometimes, it’s obvious that the leaders need the support of their most clever artists. During wars, for instance, we are proud when some well known artist can produce some kind of “Raising the Flag on Iwo Jima” or celebrate the true values of our nation as Arno Brecker did during the Second World War. That’s when we are ready to give them wealth and celebrity. But, as soon as peace is back, how fast are they forgotten and even treated as unwanted beggars.

It reminds me of that tale from the Grimm brothers “Das blaue Licht”. At the very beginning of the tale, the war being finished, the king tells a soldier: “…du kannst heimgehen, ich brauche dich nicht mehr--Geld bekommst du weiter nicht, denn Lohn erhält nur der, welcher mir Dienste dafür leistet”. (“Thou mayst return to thy home, I need thee no longer, and thou wilt not receive any more money, for he only receives wages who renders me service for them.”) The soldier, being a clever one, after playing a few tricks to some kind of stupid witch, steals from her a blue light that came with a handy little black dwarf. As the soldier asks him for the light’s user’s guide, the dwarf says: “Es ist nichts nötig' sprach das Männchen, 'als daß du deine Pfeife an dem blauen Licht anzündest, dann stehe ich gleich vor dir.” (“Nothing more is needed than that thou shouldst light thy pipe at the blue light, and I will appear before thee at once.”) That way, our clever soldier made his fortune just by lighting his pipe once in a while at the blue light!

Isn’t it amazing to realize that, in every country, throughout the ages, no matter how badly artists are treated, they keep on producing, they keep on creating, they keep on generously giving the best they have. Isn’t it because they know very well that we can’t live without the marvels they grant us so generously? Isn’t it because they know too well that society wouldn’t even exist without them? Isn’t it because they know perfectly well they are our conscience, the only lighthouses that can help us to make it through the storms of life, no matter how bad these storms may be? Or, maybe they simply have the “blue light”!

So, how come are we so stingy when it comes to give back to our artists? Isn’t it because we think we can make it without them? Can society be so stupid? I am afraid that it’s the only logical explanation I can find.

Of course, it’s obvious artists have found the magic “blue light” on which they can light their pipes. Wouldn’t it be marvelous if we could, as a society, be smart enough to give them, once in a while, a little tobacco to smoke?

Comeau

Bombs and Wet Firecrackers

Mathieu Laca, Self-portrait, 2005

Sometimes I would like to be some kind of fly and be able to check in artists’ closets. I believe I would find tons of unshown pieces of art. Unshown because it’s too sexually explicit, too violent, too sacrilegious, too outrageous, too gruesome; simply because it’s a portrait of mommy and she looks too fat; a portrait of daddy and he looks too drunk. There are thousands of good reasons for not showing a piece of art. But the main reason is very often the lack of courage.

Anyway, what’s an unshown piece of art? An unshown piece of art is not a piece of art at all. It’s simply some kind of weird curiosity about which we like to build fables, good yummy crunchy stories we tell our friends and relatives. Good juicy stories that we hope will bring us a bit of publicity. An unshown piece of art might as well not exist; it’s nothing else but a waste of material.

Right here, we must distinguish between bombs and wet firecrackers. Every artist fears censorship like hell. Censorship is a plague that can kill any artist. We must fight censorship with all the weapons we can imagine. But, before taking out the submachine guns, let’s be sure that there’s censorship at all.

And remember that what we call self-censorship is almost always a lack of courage because the artist knows perfectly well someone will swear at what he shows. Artists need desperately to be loved! Also, let’s be sure that what we call self-censorship, moreover when it is widely publicized, is not a way of pointing fingers at other artists that have a courage we don’t have.

Every visual artist must decide: either he shows cute and cuddly flowers in golden pots or he shows what he really believe he must show to shake the visitor’s mind and then, he must fear censorship. Why would a real artist exist if not to shake the visitors at a gallery? For everything else, there are interior decorators!

There are very few artists with “The Guts to Kill”. Aren’t they the only true artists?

Comeau

Lucian Freud is Dead

Lucian Freud

Mathieu Laca, Lucian Freud, 2011
[My Tribute]

Lucian Freud was a British painter. Known chiefly for his thickly impasted portrait and figure paintings, he was widely considered the pre-eminent British artist of his time. His works are noted for their psychological penetration, and for their often discomforting examination of the relationship between artist and model. He died yesterday at 88 years old.

Click here for a great video on his recent Paris exhibition.

"Just like Francis Bacon"

(Le français suit.)
A painter I know on Facebook has just received a comment saying that his work was just a copy/paste of Francis Bacon. Aside from being unfair, this made me think of the idea of “copying” and “being influenced by” since my work has also often been compared to the one of the British master.

In my opinion, every painter must copy and be influenced by other artists. I do not consider it to be a weakness. On the contrary, I think it takes great self-confidence to allow other voices to speak within you. Being influenced… that’s how we learn! By emulating artists we love, picking up something here and there according to our sensitivity, rearranging it, trying to be as good, increasing our means of expression, etc. However deeply influenced one can become, something will always endure. In the end, you can only be just yourself!

Being free of any kind of influence might be considered more pure, more original by a few but you invariably end up repeating yourself. You’re condemned to boredom! There’s too much emphasize nowadays on originality I think. A lot of works are very original but nonetheless depressingly boring! Artists should not live in shells.

Attached is a portrait of Francis Bacon I’m working on and that says all the admiration I have for him. Painting is very much speaking to the dead sometimes. If people say it’s “just like Francis Bacon”, I’ll smile thinking about Bacon when he was beginning, how he would have shaken his head annoyingly hearing that his work was “just like… Picasso!”

***

Un peintre que je connais sur Facebook a récemment reçu un commentaire disant que son travail n’est que du copier/coller de Francis Bacon. À part le fait que cette remarque soit totalement injuste, ça m’a fait réfléchir au fait de «copier» et d’«être influencé par» puisque mon travail a également souvent été comparé à celui du maître anglais.

À mon avis, chaque peintre doit copier et être influencé par d’autres artistes. Je ne considère pas cela comme une faiblesse. Au contraire, je crois que ça prend une grande confiance en soi pour accepter que d’autres voix parlent à l’intérieur de soi. Être influencé… c’est apprendre! C’est par l’émulation des artistes que l’on aime que l’on se forme. On prend quelque chose ici et là, on le réarrange, on essaie d’être aussi bon, multipliant les possibilités de notre expression, etc. Malgré une profonde influence, quelque chose demeurera toujours. Au bout du compte, on ne peut seulement être que soi-même!

Être libre de toute influence peut être considéré comme plus pur, plus original par certains, mais cela nous enferme invariablement dans une répétition stérile. On est condamné à l’ennuyanterie! Je trouve que, de nos jours, on donne trop d’importance à l’originalité. Beaucoup d’œuvres sont très originales mais pourtant désespérément ennuyantes! Les artistes ne doivent pas vivre dans une tour d’ivoire.

Ci-haut, un portrait de Francis Bacon sur lequel je travaille et qui porte toute l’admiration que j’ai pour lui. Peindre, c’est souvent parler aux morts. Si des gens disent qu’il ne s’agit que d’une «copie de Francis Bacon», je vais sourire en pensant à Bacon à ses débuts, à la manière dont il aurait secoué la tête d’agacement en entendant dire que son travail «n’est qu’une copie de… Picasso!»

Mathieu Laca