The first I met Paul Georges was at the Figurative Alliance.
He was just back from Louisiana and teaching there. He was obviously full of the feelings of being back and he wanted to express all of his new perspective on his art. He had a hard time containing himself. A rather pedantic lecture was going on. Paul probably a bit rude, argued and disagreed, and when finally told to give, whoever it was speaking a chance--
Paul was up on his feet, with a chair in his hands, "A Lion tamer," he declared. Well, it was all rather flamboyant and ridiculous. We all were happy though to follow after him and the others older artists probably Peter Heinemann, and Tony Siani. Probably, on our way through Chinatown and into Little Italy to the Mari Chari (?) Bar.
It all seems irresponsible now. Though we were all very much in earnest. Certainly there was much beer consumed which fueled the conversation and it certainly was not of a scholarly order, but I still think it was probably a more real experience. Something read in Shakespeare's time or maybe in a Balzac novel.
Could it be like the unselfconscious real experience of direct observation forgetting an analysis of the moment?
This all was before the self conscious reflection in the studio of what Paul called transposition. Which he seemed to think a painting needed to be Art.
Transposition I think or feel is a total grasping of the form and content at hand and with that large gesture and understanding, a re-representation of these facts into a new representation of a whole new form, which would be in the realm of Art.
Paul couldn't really put it into words.
I probably learned a lot of my own inarticulateness, a way of speaking, from him in these days.
He never said the actual, or the 'right' thing which would explain it away. Realizing in a loosened tongue, even the opposite of what one was trying to put forth, that it too had some truth.
The Professional artists with careers down there on East Broadway were looking for that right thing, so the Alliance seemed unruly to them.
For us the real experience was this freedom. I was young, actually only 18 years of age in 1970.
The women had their own ideas, though I hesitate to group them with that name. They also misunderstood much of this. They had and shared the same innocence and earnest idealisms, but they balked at the waywardness of emotion spent. It seemed dangerous, and was labeled as chauvinistic. No one slowed down to explain-- some came along and they were always treated with respect. There just were no final explanations.
As I said this is all embarrassing now, mainly for how it is interpreted. But there was a real sincerity, maybe this example will show what I mean to say.
Milton Resnick was there one evening speaking in a very studied manner. It went on and we grew impatient. He talked about existentialism and abstraction.
I had read a book recently about Sartre and how the Existential and Freedom required a responsibility.
Well, this all was sufficiently complicated that in a fit of despair of not being able to state my intellectual thoughts, I stood up and gesticulated instead my feelings and -- Well, finally sat back down in horror-- Oh Dear, I certainly had meant well, but I really had no idea of the sophisticated remarks Milton was trying to get across or regard for the sober "professionals" there who actually understood.
We were young punks. Glad of the attention from our older counterparts, that we were young and upcoming.
I remember Alice Neel, looking a little, the old biddy-- belonging half way to all this rambunctiousness. She would goad the audience and have baldy comments to throw back at Kaldis, especially raucous with his hair growing out of his nose and wild hair. He certainly was of the Balzac novel and of another time.
I know there were those that were offended. But in looking back if it was the studious seminar of a city college meeting-- we wouldn't be talking or remembering those evenings which gave us so much spirit and drive.
He was just back from Louisiana and teaching there. He was obviously full of the feelings of being back and he wanted to express all of his new perspective on his art. He had a hard time containing himself. A rather pedantic lecture was going on. Paul probably a bit rude, argued and disagreed, and when finally told to give, whoever it was speaking a chance--
Paul was up on his feet, with a chair in his hands, "A Lion tamer," he declared. Well, it was all rather flamboyant and ridiculous. We all were happy though to follow after him and the others older artists probably Peter Heinemann, and Tony Siani. Probably, on our way through Chinatown and into Little Italy to the Mari Chari (?) Bar.
It all seems irresponsible now. Though we were all very much in earnest. Certainly there was much beer consumed which fueled the conversation and it certainly was not of a scholarly order, but I still think it was probably a more real experience. Something read in Shakespeare's time or maybe in a Balzac novel.
Could it be like the unselfconscious real experience of direct observation forgetting an analysis of the moment?
This all was before the self conscious reflection in the studio of what Paul called transposition. Which he seemed to think a painting needed to be Art.
Transposition I think or feel is a total grasping of the form and content at hand and with that large gesture and understanding, a re-representation of these facts into a new representation of a whole new form, which would be in the realm of Art.
Paul couldn't really put it into words.
I probably learned a lot of my own inarticulateness, a way of speaking, from him in these days.
He never said the actual, or the 'right' thing which would explain it away. Realizing in a loosened tongue, even the opposite of what one was trying to put forth, that it too had some truth.
The Professional artists with careers down there on East Broadway were looking for that right thing, so the Alliance seemed unruly to them.
For us the real experience was this freedom. I was young, actually only 18 years of age in 1970.
The women had their own ideas, though I hesitate to group them with that name. They also misunderstood much of this. They had and shared the same innocence and earnest idealisms, but they balked at the waywardness of emotion spent. It seemed dangerous, and was labeled as chauvinistic. No one slowed down to explain-- some came along and they were always treated with respect. There just were no final explanations.
As I said this is all embarrassing now, mainly for how it is interpreted. But there was a real sincerity, maybe this example will show what I mean to say.
Milton Resnick was there one evening speaking in a very studied manner. It went on and we grew impatient. He talked about existentialism and abstraction.
I had read a book recently about Sartre and how the Existential and Freedom required a responsibility.
Well, this all was sufficiently complicated that in a fit of despair of not being able to state my intellectual thoughts, I stood up and gesticulated instead my feelings and -- Well, finally sat back down in horror-- Oh Dear, I certainly had meant well, but I really had no idea of the sophisticated remarks Milton was trying to get across or regard for the sober "professionals" there who actually understood.
We were young punks. Glad of the attention from our older counterparts, that we were young and upcoming.
I remember Alice Neel, looking a little, the old biddy-- belonging half way to all this rambunctiousness. She would goad the audience and have baldy comments to throw back at Kaldis, especially raucous with his hair growing out of his nose and wild hair. He certainly was of the Balzac novel and of another time.
I know there were those that were offended. But in looking back if it was the studious seminar of a city college meeting-- we wouldn't be talking or remembering those evenings which gave us so much spirit and drive.
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