Mike & Cole Schindler
Christmas Camel 2009
Mixed Media

Mike Schindler
Two Turtle Doves 2008
Mixed Media / Holiday Card

Mike Schindler
Curtains 1995
Ink on Died Canvas
78¼ x 51½ inches

Thirteen years later, I still consider this piece to be one of the most significant breakthroughs of my early artistic development. It was made in 1995 through a process of hand dying raw canvas, which was then brushed with ink. Titled Curtains, it’s an overtly political work which solidified my tendency to map imagery into adjacent relationships and unlikely contexts.

At the time it was created, academia was still trying to explain the collapse of the Soviet Union. Having read several books by Michael Parenti and becoming more and more influenced by the obsessive drive of artist Robert Gober, I set out to do a piece that tied together (quite literally as it turned out) some thoughts on politics, media, and culture.

There are four repeating images on this loose canvas, which when hung properly could appear to be working curtains to a non-attentive passerby. On the left hand side in red is a recognizable portait of Stalin set against the backdrop of the Sputnik satellite. On the right in brilliant blue is a map of a country with a legend that reads Panama, 1989. It’s checkered by a bottle from the popular sitcom I Dream of Jeanie.

It dances around, tumbling and emitting smoke as if to foretell a future spelled out in mystery, war, and deception.

I’m not exactly sure why, but more people than usual have been asking me about my Christmas card this year.

This one started with some direction from my wife, which she stated plainly enough to me one evening, “You’ve never done a Santa before. You should do an old-fashioned one with rosey cheeks.”

I suspect that I’m actually way off the mark of what she was thinking, but somewhere in-between what she said and what I was feeling at the time, the image of a man playing a banjo kept appearing in my head. I don’t know why, but it made perfect sense to me. And when that happens, I just follow through.

I used this photograph as a referential base, which I found simply by searching for “banjo player” via Google images. It’s actually the first image in the results, but the best one I found after scanning several pages.

The racial ambiguity of the “Santa” like figure was intentional. Also somewhat key to the delivery was my recollection of work by Jack Levine. Other than that, the actual rendering was done rather quickly with ink wash on painted wood (the same board I use every year for texture). The result was then scanned in and colorized via Photoshop. Some embellishments, such as the patterns on the suspenders were layered in, but no filters (nor any harm to small kittens) were used in the making of this card.

As always, the most pain-staking process in making my cards is the hand-deckled edges I compulsively tear from the edge of each and every card, which then get glued on the front of card stock.

It’s a labor of love, and one I couldn’t stop myself from doing even if I tried.

One morning during my Junior year of college, my sculptor professor, a scruffy-looking curmudgeonly man, who also happens to be one of the most well-spoken individuals on the topic of art I’ve ever met in real life, led our small group through the art building’s court yard area.

We must have been doing a class critique of some student work, when we came across an old, torn-up mattress that had been abandoned next to the art building and seemingly staged for display. On it somebody left a piece of paper with some words scrawled on it.

“This is art. Smell my fart.”

For a minute, I saw the stunt for what it appeared to be on the surface–a prank begotten of laziness, opportunity, and a few too many beers by some asshole fraternity members wanting to get rid of some old junk–and I probably even chuckled to myself at the culprit’s audacity.

But as I stood there debating the delivery of a sardonic comment that never came, it soon sunk in that this was something of a test for me.

At that time, I had just begun accepting the fact that I would be dedicating part of my life to making art, or at the very least something of creative value for others and myself. And here were people telling me how worthless it all was–belittling my peers, my institution, and what I thought at the time was my purpose. In fact, they were willfully acting out against the idea of art itself and I couldn’t help but to take it personally. At the peak of this moment of college self-discovery, I knew there could only one side for me to stand.

When my professor read the note, he didn’t seem surprised. But his disappointment couldn’t be contained either. He later recalled to us his own story of a public sculpture piece he created as a young artist, which repeatedly fell victim to a local vandal.

“That’s when I learned,” he said in his usual deadpan, “that some people can’t handle creative expression. They’re so intolerant of any point of view that they don’t understand or simply don’t agree with, that they’ll try to destroy it.”

This unrehearsed bit of wisdom still resonates with me today. It reminds me to expect the unexpected. And it helps me understand that creative expression can sometimes speak powerful words to people who are too closed minded to simply sit back and listen.

But there are two outstanding paintings, which have left me breathless during the past few days — both for different reasons, however cumulatively similar their effect may have been. The first is Antonio Mancini’s Il Saltimbanco — a nearly seven foot tall stretched canvas of remarkable execution. This Italian-born painter and contemporary of John Singer Sargent may be lesser known than his friend to popular art history, but he’s certainly acheived a similar greatness as a painter. Known for his portaits of homeless children and street performers, a closer inspection of Il Saltibanco shows the artist’s remarkable technique, which embraces a poetic realism along with an expressionistic tendency far ahead of his time.

Standing a few feet away reveals the artist’s use of reflective gold and thickly applied paint. From this distance as my eyes weaved around the composition of the various staged props, I immediately gained a profound respect for Antonio Mancini. The Philadelphia Museum of Art has recently acquired over 40 works by the artist, which will be exhibiting in October. If his other paintings are anything like Il Saltibanco (and I’m convinced this one has to be an exception), the show should not be missed.

Antonio Mancini
Il Saltimbanco (detail) 1877-78
Oil on canvas
Philadelphia Museum of Art

Another remarkable piece, which could easily be passed given it’s diminutive 5 inch size (and especially in comparison to the Mancini), is Jan Van Eyck’s rendition of Saint Francis of Assisi Receiving the Stigmata. This extraordinary work is a technical marvel to be seen. But be warned–a recent trip to an optometrist is probably required before viewing.

Although a provocative examination of it’s true identity has recently been articulated and despite the existence of an identical, yet four times larger, duplicate of the painting in Turin, Italy, the Philly version is no less a significant achievement. Indeed, as I looked at the four centuries old work with my own eyes, I felt forced into some kind of awe struck concentration–engrossed at the pain staking realism, which is hair-painted into such a small area. Save for the curious misplacement of the iconic figure’s feet, it is executed to near perfection.

Jan Van Eyck
Saint Francis of Assisi Receiving the Stigmata c. 1438-40
Oil on vellum on panel
Philadelphia Museum of Art

Both these works are exquisite in their own ways and I find their dichotomy in scale to be particularly charming. If you’ve never had the chance to run up the Philly museum’s front steps, I recommend making a point of doing so at some point in your life. And after you’re done posing like Rocky (dont’ worry, you undoubtedly won’t be alone), I recommend going in to see these master works. They are among the best that have ever been created by human hands.

I find it hard to believe myself, but I’ve done the math, and I started making cards and sending them out to friends and family exactly ten years ago. The first run was for my immediate family, but the current list stretches almost to a hundred. If you’d like to receive a hand-deckled print next year, or if you’ve received one in the past and have unexpectedly moved to the Virgin Islands, just drop me a line.