Katz as Katz Can ...

More and more I've been sinking into a sense of depression - disconnecting from friends, music, the world, walking, reading - everything.

Yesterday my doctor told me that some of my blood chemistry had changed, mostly because of losing so much fat by walking. Some adjustments in my diabetes meds have been made - apparently Native Americans react differently when conditions, known as the "base", change.

Which might explain a lot.

I'm barely human at the best of times; this isn't helping.

So I took one of my 90-minute vacations today. They originally started at 30, then went up to 60 early last year. The idea is to set the timer on my iPhone then drive in an arbitrarily-chosen direction for the set time. When the alarm - usually a duck - goes off I get out, take some pictures, eat lunch as needed, then come back in.

It's an easy way to go adventuring for only the cost of gas. Now it's up to 90 minutes. I'm slowly using up Maine.

Today was a kind of cheat. On the good advice of a friend who really should know I went north to Waterville, to look at the Alex Katz exhibit at the Colby Museum of Art.

Summer break is on, the campus' manicured lawns are a rich green, the parking lots blissfully empty. One of the lawns had the inevitable event-type white tent (photo shown) which I'll bet is intended for some kind of fund-raising or "brand-building" event. Next to it were trucks dropping off tables. Cloths will come next, followed by caterers and open bars.  Then, very self-entitled people with a lot of money.

Some things never change.

The Museum as it is comprises one huge sub-divided gallery containing, overall, three sections. The light comes from large pyramidal skylights, very little direct lighting - very effective.

A huge new entrance pavilion is under construction, set to open next Summer.

I had heard of Katz when I studied Art History back in grad school, at Louisiana Tech (of all places). The flat, direct, very minimal style was familiar to me, but I didn't connect it until on the way back to Portland.

Looking closely at the brush work - and distantly at the composition - I felt he improvised on the canvas - or more specifically, he improvised it in his head and his hands took dictation to get it down.

Of course, improvisation is the give and take between what your brain conceives and how it reacts to its experience of that conception's realization. When I my hands realize a melody and I then hear it I react and move in response to what I've just created. It wouldn't surprise me if painters have a similar experience.

Two very large canvases - apparently a trademark of his - faced each other across the room. "West" (link to image on Colby Museum Website) was a nightscape capturing the lights of a building against the black of the city. I got very close to this one - respectfully behind the rope - and marveled at the construction of the lighted windows - mostly dry-brushed white against a black gesso.

The sill and frame of each window are gently outlined in grey throughout the canvas.

I suspect the sheer volume of work he's done has brought him to a place where the what of his concept blends so perfectly with the how of its execution that he just goes to it.

I know he laid it out, he had to.  Just enough detail. Just enough information. He leaves the emotional content to you.

The number of figures - portraits, groups, cutouts, illustrations (almost) - surprised me. There were some interesting things to see. I counted 43 faces on display (not counting the cutouts in the first gallery) - of those, only 3 were facing full-on front. This might be a more interesting way to shape a face on canvas - I know I rarely take a photo of someone flat full-on as the detail tends to wash away.

Still, Katz' style doesn't present photographic detail. Each image presents only the needed information - again, almost poster-like, but with a clear sense of personality and life. Perhaps the most iconic is "Black Hat - Bettina" (link to image on UK Guardian website).

Oddly - and maybe I'm sensitive to this - there was only one non-white face in all the canvases, a piece called, I believe "Brown Night", painted in 1991 (though there is another called "Kynaston" from 1963).

Is it fair to say we paint - or write - mostly what we see? Or what we wish we saw? Or what we think we see? Or do we just create first and figure it out later?

Of course, Colby has something like 400 canvases in its collection, this is only a small bit.

What does he spend his time looking at, who? For that matter, who or what do I think of?

Regardless of the accuracy of my observations - or the relevancy of my reactions - it was heartening to consider how you would conceive and fix such an image in your head and then transfer it to your hands for recording. Perhaps - and I'm not a painter - the more you do, the more the two things blend together.

I know when I write a piece of music the basic material comes into my head and then almost immediately goes into my hands as I record and shape it.

And this process feels good to me - my mind is at home, my heart has a voice to use to present its feelings. I hope so. Part of me is very frightened of what I feel, part of me is driven to express it, part of me is always caught in waves of passion and observation. In time, balance can be found, I suppose.

Katz tells us only what we need to know - but we are still driven to know and the reaction is our own.

We'll see what the meds can do adjust my blood sugar, my energy level and thus my tolerance of humanity - starting with myself.

Portland, Maine.