BILL MAYER IN THE NEW YORK TIMES

 I've had some unkind things to say about illustration in the New York Times in recent years.  I felt that the Times had lost its taste for traditional drawing, and its replacements-- digital collages, naive scrawls, and postmodern mewlings-- were unworthy of the Times.  I suggested the Times had succumbed to the "I'm-so-smart-I don't-have-to-draw-well" attitude that infected too many other publications.  Some of its digital illustrations in recent years demonstrated a young medium with potential but even then, much of it substituted flash and gimmickry for genuine substance.  One step across a two-step ditch.

So perhaps I've been remiss in not commenting on a regular source of pure joy for me in the pages of the Times: Bill Mayer's regular contributions to the "NYT For Kids" section: 

Mayer's bold, colorful pictures are reproduced in a full broadsheet size (12" x 22") and transform the nature of the Sunday newspaper.  They'd transform your whole day if you stapled them to your wall as a poster.  

Mayer takes full advantage of the huge size of a full newspaper page, combined with the color printing capabilities of today's papers.  His pages are sufficient reason for getting the Times in hard copy.

Detail

Mayer works skillfully in both traditional and digital media.  His website demonstrates how he can create in a variety of styles for adults and children but his work for the NYT For Kids section mostly employs these plump, bug-eyed  creatures with wacky expressions.  

Note the skin textures

Artists have been drawing funny creatures with wacky expressions for millennia; the ground is well trodden and formulaic.  But it's a measure of Mayer's great ability that his creatures remain fresh and funny. 

Illustration for another client

INAUGURATION WEEK: BODYBUILDER JESUS

I find Boris Vallejo's painting of bodybuilder Jesus hilarious.  

It's hard to imagine a picture more clueless about who Jesus was, what he stood for, the significance of the cross, or the principles of the New Testament.  Vallejo's urge to worship bulging muscles might be understandable but its dumbnicity is comical.

There's a long history of imperial art dedicated to the glorification of powerful leaders. The ancient Egyptians and Romans at the height of their imperial power understood the effectiveness of monumental sculptures and triumphal arches.  They erected tall, powerful columns as not-so-subtle symbols of their potency. The creators of the immense statue of Ramesses II or the epic Trajan's column knew how to manifest power.  

In this tradition, Roman sculptors created powerful statues to flatter their emperor.  But flattery can only go so far; if a Roman artist ever tried to portray an emperor with fake muscles popping out like a sack of potatoes, the crowds would've rolled on the ground laughing. The Roman public was not that stupid and the Roman emperors were not that shameless.

UNDERNEATH THE DESIGN

I love Mark Borgions' picture of a gorilla:

 At first it looks like it's all about the design:  the simple, flat geometric shapes, the bold colors, that striking composition-from-above-- yup, this has the kind of power you can achieve with pure, uncompromised design.

Yet, underneath these abstract shapes there's a great deal of observation about the forms being captured.  That head seemingly so reckless and unbridled perfectly captures the prognathic shape of a gorilla skull.  The powerful turned wrists and curled fingers are an excellent observation about a knuckle walking simian; Borgions even highlight the opposable thumbs.  The immense forearms which dominate the picture reflect the perfect prioritization for an animal with all its strength and size in its arms, and comparatively little in its small hindquarters.  The hindquarters, you'll note, have been omitted altogether. 

Many people view abstract design as being at odds with representational image making, but Borgions shows how a smart, talented artist can make a strong image accommodating both.

ARTISTS IN LOVE, part 24

Pliny the Elder tells of a young maid in ancient Corinth, the daughter of Butades the potter.  The woman loved a young man who had to leave on a long trip.  The night before he left, she was so distraught that she traced his shadow on the wall by lamplight so that she could keep him with her.

Some say this was the origin of all painting: an attempt to hang onto whatever we can of something destined to end.

Over the years, I've been touched by sketches by artists who wanted to preserve a particular moment of their loved one.   The sketches aren't always perfect, but I give them points for their genuine emotion. 

For example, here is William Taylor's sketch of his wife Audrey combing her hair at the wash basin during World War II England;

The room was small and spare, and I'm sure the war weighed heavily on their minds, but that didn't prevent Taylor from noticing and admiring his wife's long hair. 

I've previously shown (and admired) Ivor Hele's sketch of his wife pulling on her stockings in Australia during the 1950s.  

And Raymond Sheppard sketching his wife nodding off by the fire in their small flat:

Sometimes the artist just wanted to preserve a fleeting glance over the shoulder:

Mary Adshead, the wife of artist Stephen Bone (1904 - 1958) gifted him with a slightly risqué pose on a remote beach in England. 

The wife of Maxfield Parrish used to pose for him at the beginning of his career, but as he became successful and the couple became well to do, she became less interested in posing and found better things to do with her time.  Gradually, the couple's nanny, Sue Lewin, filled in as his model.  Then, while Mrs Parrish went on long cruises, Lewin filled in for her in other respects as well.

 

Stanley Meltzoff was able to preserve the day he met his future wife in August 1947, because she showed up as a model for an assignment: 

He later wrote in his autobiography, "Alice walked into my loft as a model and three days later we were married."  After they were married, he painted (with apparent delight) a study of every one of his bride's orifices.  I'm only reproducing the mouth painting here:

In their own way, these artists are the children of Butades, preserving the shadow of their loved ones.