Life by Art: Part Nine

Oak or Maple?

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Telling trees apart from one another can be done in several ways. The simplest method is looking at its leaves, then the fruit or nuts they bear, the canopy of the branches, and even after it succumbs to a chainsaw, its distinctive fragrance. And trees, if healthy and left alone, will continue to live for, sometimes, hundreds of years.

My Great-Aunt Mary was as solid as an oak — strong, resilient. She’s been gone for over 33 years at this point, but her voice and infectious laugh still resonate in my head whenever I think back on her. If you knew her, you’d know she was the backbone of the family, the last matriarch of her generation. My father’s aunt, his father’s sister. She never married to start her own branch of the family tree, but that never stopped her from holding our tree sacred. She collected, stored, and taught all things family up until the day she died — and over the years, much of what she knew passed on to me. A blessing and a burden one might say, but a responsibility nonetheless.

Most of us define our families similarly — spouse, children, parents, grandparents. Many of the folks I talk with about their own family trees, before I put them to sleep talking about mine, know very little information beyond that. And maybe it’s not that important for those who live in the present or only want to think of the future. And while I’d agree that those things take precedence, I’ve always felt the past is as equally important — not to live in it, but learn from it. To understand where things began for me, for you, for us — connecting dots, crossing t’s and all. And, not just as individuals, but as a people. Regardless of your race, religion, nationality… we’re all part of the same big tree, stemming from the same ancient roots. Okay, that was 150,000 years ago, but still.

“The one sure thing everyone has in common is the fact that we all descend from somebody before us. Each and every person has a unique family tree with thousands upon thousands of smaller twisting twigs joining one another and forming larger branches until we find that eventually we are all related to a single common ancestor.”

Those were the opening lines to a book I wrote a few years back when I began tracing my lineage through my mother’s side of the family. The introduction wasn’t religion- or science-driven, but rather based on a simple biological fact that each of us comes from a single set of parents — so on and so on back to the beginning. You may recall only a few generations, but know that it goes much farther back than that. Now, you can interpret that however you want, but it all whittles down to the same answer — we are all explicably linked to each other somewhere in this vast tree. As modern man migrated out of Africa eons ago, he evolved and formed groups according to similar beliefs, common causes, ethnicities, nationalities, and family. Family being the strongest bond that endures above all else. And, that can even expand to someone’s personal interpretation of what family means to them. And trust me, it will differ from person to person.

The last few months have been a strain on everyone. Families, friends, neighbors, work associates, and even strangers in the street have all been separated from each other to varying degrees. And it’s difficult, I know. But, in a way, this virus has united all of us against a common enemy, something that as of today, we are still learning new ways to combat. For now, trying to ward off its spread by isolating, separating, and distancing, at least until a better alternative comes along, is what we have to work with. And I realize that — the social race that we are — it goes against our human nature to do just that. We crave that companionship to be whole, to be a part of society, to work, to stay connected, to feel needed. There’s no doubt it’s a huge inconvenience right now, but it’s really not a big deal in the whole scheme of things. It sure beats the alternative, anyway.

Just remember that the shape or color of your leaf is not what’s important. Yes, there may be a few nuts among us, but nature has its way of shaking them out. The wind may knock off the weaker branches but the rain and sunshine will continue to keep the human tree nourished. We will survive this glitch, get through it together, and come out stronger on the other side.

Even separated, we are more connected than you think.

Fanny Howell by Jesse C. Hulse
® 1983 Jesse C. Hulse. All rights reserved.

Life by Art: Part Eight

Waiting for the locust.

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Well, so far 2020 has certainly thrown us some real curveballs. The pandemic debacle has overshadowed much of our daily lives as we try and muddle through choosing to do the right thing as we begin to move forward. Hopefully, making choices that will ultimately benefit all of us when we emerge on the other side of this. Opinions and strategies abound, as you might imagine, but regardless of your stance, most of our lives will have been curtailed to one varying degree or another. And, no matter what thoughts you have on wearing a mask, or how to vanquish the virus, or return us to some sort of normalcy, it will have touched all of us on some level before it’s all over. We’re halfway through the year so far and it still looks like we’re going to be in for a rough ride for the remainder. So, expect quarantined turkey at Thanksgiving and don’t look for Santa coming anywhere near your chimney this Christmas.

Also, depending on where you live in this country, severe weather has also reared its ugly head again with brush fires, coastal storms, flooding, along with the hurricane season, that no doubt is soon to follow. Our region recently suffered a great deal of damage by rare lake-effect winds and thunderstorms called a Derecho. It’s a real thing, trust me. Look it up. Originating over Lake Erie, it swept surface winds of well-over 80 mph across great swaths of Pennsylvania, leaving a path of state-wide power outages and immeasurable tree damage in its wake. We lost power for over 5 days but it could have been worse, I suppose. No frogs, or flies, or locusts. Not yet, anyway.

In the midst of it all, an even more devasting storm has been plaguing us as we try and wrestle with some of our nation’s more difficult past. There are a number of euphemisms about those who forget the past being doomed to repeat it, and it’s still a fine line between erasing and forgetting versus learning and growing in order to calm those rough waters. There will have to be a compromise at some point as this storm of divisiveness continues to pound the shores of human disparity. Of peace. Of acceptance. Of unity. I don’t presume to have all the answers, I just hope we find one before this goes down a more hurtful path. We need to come together, now more than ever. We shouldn’t lose focus on the common enemy and finding a cure to this debilitating virus — and make no mistake, it’s the one thing that doesn’t seem to care about who you are. No matter what side you’re on.

We can always mend roofs and repair powerlines. We can even try and prepare ourselves with stronger shelters against the next big storm. I also have no doubt we will beat this awful virus one of these days soon, just as we’ve always done in the past. We are a smart people, resilient, and resourceful. We can do great things if we put our minds to it by solving a common issue, not banging our heads together in anger.

We will persevere. Love those around you. Trust in us.

Child of God by Jesse C. Hulse
® 1975 Jesse C. Hulse. All rights reserved.

Life by Art: Part Seven

Thanks, dad.

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Recently, a friend had been posting some humorous and witty things to his Facebook page, which, if you knew him, seemed a little out of character for what I’d come to expect from his usual banter. We typically crack jokes or poke and prod each other about various things, political and otherwise, while we struggle through nine holes — which, by the way, we both suck miserably at. And, although we may not always agree on certain points, it doesn’t change the fact that we still remain friends. It’s good to have different points of view about stuff in life, keeps things interesting that way.

So, I ran into him the other day and commented that his most recent post made me chuckle a bit, being silly humor and all. His comment back was that with so much negativity and disruption going on in our daily lives, he thought he’d do his part and interject a bit of levity into these otherwise stressful times. Laughter has always been the best medicine after all. And, you know, he was right. There is too much ill-will and clutter in the news, not nearly enough positivity and pleasantries. But please, don’t ever tell him I said he was right or I’ll never live it down. But, because of him, I backed off the commentary angle that I wanted to originally take in this week’s blog, and took a turn towards gratitude instead.

Coming off a great Father’s Day weekend, I thought it would be a good time to sit back, relax, and reflect a little. My oldest and best friend from high school texted me over the weekend and said he had visited the cemetery on Sunday to talk with his dad, a way to reconnect for a little while. I’m sure bringing him a moment of well-deserved peace and solace. I thought on my own father as well, and step-father, both passed on at this point — thinking on happier times and wishing they were both here to help celebrate the day. Helping to toast a beautiful end of June with an ice-cold Stella for dad, and a gin, rocks, no fruit for Joel. Man, they would have enjoyed the day! And, even though I was with my wonderful family, including my 90-year-old mother, I still missed the old men with their dry wit and witticism, for sure.

I take on my father’s role now, I guess. Most of my friends do the same these days as we’re all pretty much at that age. It’s just the way things work out, and if we’re lucky enough, all us guys should get that chance to live through these aspects of life — from being the child, to being the father, and eventually, hopefully, a grandfather. I am eternally grateful that mom and dad found each other all those years ago, despite an awkward first date (high heels and golf balls — it’s a pretty funny story if you ever get the chance to ask her). And despite mom’s trepidations about dad early on, I’m glad she didn’t run off with her old boyfriend at the time, otherwise things would have ended up completely different for me. 

Hopefully, and God willing, one day our own son and daughter will think back on these days as happy times, despite the current debacle playing out in front of them. I try and tell them to remain positive and forward-thinking, not to get too hung up on the news and the crap that bombards us these days. Change what you can, if you can’t, move on and don’t worry about it too much. Things always have a way of working out in the end.

It’s exhilarating to watch as they begin their own lives as meaningful adults. Watching how they change and grow and cope with whatever gets thrown at them, just like we did when we first started out. Building relationships, gaining responsibility, adjusting as they go along. As their father, along with their mother, we couldn’t be prouder, honestly. I guess some of the advice and direction we gave them in life rubbed off a little, despite the years that we thought none of it would stick. But, thankful that it did.

So, in honor of Father’s Day, thanks dad for being there when it was most important. It’s a wonderful passage to take. This life thing. And even though there may have been moments of despair along the way with probably still more to come, there will always be so many more times of happiness. Life, after all, is something to cherish for as long as it may last.

Enjoy the moment.

Wild Bill by Jesse C. Hulse
® 2016 Jesse C. Hulse. All rights reserved.

Life by Art: Part Six

To hunker down, or not.

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Sometimes it takes a national crisis, a cataclysmic event, or as in this case, a worldwide pandemic to allow a new set of linguistic terminology to seep into our culture. Several words and catchphrases that may have been around for some time have recently taken root into new meanings. I don’t think I’ve used the expression “hunker down” more than a handful of times in my entire life and yet so far this year alone, if I had a dime for every time I read or used it in a sentence, I’d be in the top 1% for sure. For those still not acquainted with it, the dictionary defines it like this:

hunker down [huhng-ker doun] :  1. to crouch or squat on one’s heels.  2a. to hide out or take shelter, often for just a few hours or less, as from a pursuer or a storm.  2b. to settle in to the safety of one’s home or other designated shelter for a potentially prolonged time, as would be necessitated by a natural disaster or an outbreak of a contagious disease.  3. to hold resolutely or stubbornly to a policy, opinion, etc., when confronted by criticism, opposition, or unfavorable circumstances.  4. to give one’s full and earnest attention to a project, assignment, or other obligation.

Pretty much on target, right? I thought by providing a definition, it might help clear up any misinterpretations of what it actually means. The correct number, as it applies to this writing is, of course, 2b. Or not 2b. And yes, that is totally the question.

Let me throw in a few others — face-mask, social-distance, hand sanitizer, binge-watch (FYI: 5 stars for The Handmaid’s Tale), online wine & spirits order, and curbside pickup. All fairly innocuous and tolerable terms for the most part. But, combine them with quarantine, PPE, ventilators, vaccines, frontline workers, then add in a healthy dose of frustration, a cup of boredom, a pinch of stimulus, and a whole lot of unemployment — and things end up sounding, well, more like a recipe for disaster. I was going to include toilet paper in that list, but that didn’t seem right when using a cooking analogy. But, yes, toilet paper hoarding. Who’d of thought that was a thing?

Of course, words only pale to the number 110,000. A mile-marker everyone should be made aware of and deeply saddened by. To put it into a relatable perspective: take a completely packed Phillies game at Citizens Bank Park plus a full-capacity stadium at Lincoln Financial Field for one Eagle’s game — men, women, and children. Friends. Family. Co-workers. All Americans. And, all gone. In the virtual blink of an eye. How do we put that in perspective? How do we hunker down for that realization?

So, for those of you who interpret hunker down as just your crazy neighbor’s excuse to wear a mask in the grocery store, or New York City’s problem, or an issue for Minnesota to deal with, or Sweden, or Timbuktu. Just know that it applies to all of us. From the top down, left to right, inside out. Of course, everyone has their own opinion on what to do next, and while some voices are louder than others, the virus can’t hear them and simply doesn’t care.

By definition, all of us are affected in one way or another. And yes, some will weather the ****storm better than others, and for many, life will eventually return to semi-normal (or as a recently viewed license plate read, ABNORML). The good news is that current national trends may be showing cases in Pennsylvania starting to wane, or plateau anyway. But it’s not quite over with yet folks, so we need to have a little more patience. Remember to tiptoe in, test the waters first, and most of all, remain resilient. And for everyone’s sake, just use common sense. Please.

Maybe it’s a small sacrifice to make in the face of things much larger than ourselves?

Loud and Clear (magazine illustration) by Jesse C. Hulse
® Jesse C. Hulse. All rights reserved.

Life by Art: Part Five

A freshman point of view.

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College, for me, was a few years ago at this point, and Tyler School of Art (in Elkin’s Park back then) was Temple’s renown art college situated on the northern outskirts of Philadelphia. The campus was relatively small, but intimate in a way, diverse, and everyone got to know each other pretty quickly. The education was personal and focused and we learned, as most freshman do anywhere, that there is more out there to explore than the microcosm of life we had just come from.

Freshman year at college was a real eye-opener for many of us who muddled our way through it. Big fish in the small pond of high school thrown headfirst into the uncharted waters of college, starting over as a minnow again. Personally, adjusting to dorm life with a roommate who rocked Grateful Dead 24-hours-a-day was a culture shock to my Beatles sensibilities. Sleeping through that first period class while nursing the previous night’s hall party became all too commonplace. Mom’s home-cooking was replaced by steam-table delicacies served by a rough-looking round woman in a hairnet who manned the flat top barking, “what’chu want, hon?” All those weary, young freshman looking to her as their sole source of nourishment and wondering why they were all gaining weight. Her daily greeting rose above the din of the dining hall as everyone lined up for breakfast each morning, watching her ladle out a yellow concoction onto the griddle that she gleefully referred to as scrambled eggs. I was scarred for life. Truly. But, eventually we all adjusted, and after a while, grew to appreciate our morning dance at the grill.

I still came home almost every weekend during that first semester, being only an hour away. Partly because I still worked Saturdays pumping gas at a local service station, and partly, to see my girlfriend — not quite ready to move on from either one at first. It just took me a little longer to embrace the changes, but eventually the world opened up and I stepped in, leaving the past, as I knew it, behind me.

Later on in life, as parents, we want to guide our fledglings on a path that we think is better and maybe more beneficial, basing it all of course, on the wisdom, or lack thereof, of our own experiences. Some of our children listened to our sage advice, some listened but didn’t always acknowledge, while others just ignored it all together. But, things have a way of working out.

“Where did the time go?” Words, I suspect, uttered more than a few times on those long car rides home after dropping off children at freshman orientation. The time spent, no doubt, reminiscing through blurry eyes about the previous 18 years. Some of those first-year college newbies looked at their new-found freedom as an adventure, others, like myself, still wanted to cling to the old ways of life that we were supposed to be leaving — some of us missing families, friends, or high-school sweethearts. The first two were probably still there at Thanksgiving, and the third, well, not always. But things changed. They always did. And, still do.

Changes

If we were to look at life right now through the lens of a college freshman, faced with the current health crisis, maybe we can accept that change is inevitable. Personally, I was never a big fan of change, I liked my bird’s nest of security, of normalcy. But change always happened, with or without my approval.

And so, we’re looking at some interesting times ahead of us. What we once knew as normal will now be different. A “new” normal will emerge at some point and eventually will become the norm again. And, so it goes. Like it did after the 1918 pandemic, and the flu outbreaks of 1957-58, 68-69, and in 09-10 as a new swine flu took its own toll. But, as hard as it is to deal with the loss, separation, and isolation that each event brought, there was always a ray of hope. New ways to treat a disease, new ways to prevent it from happening again, new ways to survive. We found ways to cope and help each other, and get along. And, we moved on.

Art school was my catalyst. My way forward in life. I’m sure you all have your own moments to look back upon. But, just remember, the only certainty in life is change. And change will happen again, with or without you, or me.

Viewing life again from those anxious freshman eyes, we should probably look at the challenges ahead with optimism. Doors will open in front of us again as we take those first brave steps forward. Ever so carefully, mindfully, and with patience. Lots of patience. Hopefully, we’ll learn something in the process as we prepare to face the new world head on.

Tomorrow is always a new day.

Drawing Class Portrait by Erin Aileen Hulse
® 2013 Erin Aileen Hulse. All rights reserved.

Life by Art: Part Four

The influencers.

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I recently read a brief memorial about the passing of Betsy Merle James Wyeth (1921-2020). If you’ve never heard of Betsy, most assuredly you’ve heard of her late husband, Andy. She was the devoted and loving wife of Chester County artist Andrew Wyeth for over 70 years, until his passing in 2009. We mostly talk of Andrew, or their son Jamie, his father N.C. Wyeth, and even the dozens of artists who are related or connected somehow to the Wyeth legacy. But very little of his muse, Betsy.

Her work doesn’t hang in a famous collection at a museum somewhere (although her image does) and she isn’t known for her affinity of difficult crossword puzzles (which she loved doing). And, although Betsy wasn’t an artist in her own right, she was indeed the inspiration behind many of her famous husband’s paintings. The chief motivator behind the published works of his life and art. Co-founder of the Wyeth Foundation for American Art and the force behind the creation of the Brandywine River Museum of Art in Chadds Ford, PA. As Andrew once candidly quipped to his biographer in 1966, "She’s made me into a painter that I would not have been otherwise…she made me see more clearly what I wanted." 

As Mother’s Day was recently spent with most of us in a quarantine of some sort, it was a perfect opportunity to reflect on the important women in our lives. The wives who graciously support us through thick and thin, the mothers who provided nurturing in our lives when we needed it most, along with the daughters, sisters, nieces, aunts, grandmothers, and girlfriends alike. And, whether we want to admit it or not, us men should be eternally grateful that there was a good woman, or two, somewhere along the way who was responsible for guiding us, at least for a portion of our lives. We should all be as lucky as Andrew was, and pay homage, take notice, and appreciate the influence that these women have made. And, not for just one day a year. There are 364 other days to consider.

Their inspiration helps us all see life more clearly at times. Thank you, Betsy.

Maga’s Daughter by Andrew Wyeth
® 1966 Andrew Wyeth/ARS. All rights reserved.

Life by Art: Part Three

Teachers deserve more credit.

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I believe that many of us, at some point in our lives, might have taken those who taught us for granted. Maybe we’ve even underappreciated the impact they’ve made on our lives? But, educators who have the insight and ability to put nurturing over negativity, and promotion over penalty, are truly worth their weight in gold.

I can remember my kindergarten teacher, Miss Purdy, always complimented my drawings, and yes, they were probably done in crayon — those big fat ones like we used to have, long before I had access to the Crayola® 64-pack with built-in sharpener! And, mom would proudly tape them to the fridge, regardless. I’d also like to thank my third-grade teacher, Miss Hyde, for not chastising me in front of class for doodling when I should have been paying more attention to her. Or, my fifth-grade teacher, Mrs. Way, for allowing Tim Smith and myself to draw our history lessons in the back of the room while she taught the rest of the class about Magellan and Columbus. Mrs. Brown for giving me my first art award in our seventh-grade graduation ceremonies, and of course Mr. Kuzmin in high school, for teaching me to paint watercolors and guiding me on the path to art school.

Fortunately, there were teachers along the way that saw in me what I couldn’t see for myself at the time. Every one of us, if we think back hard enough, probably has a similar story and a teacher they could, and should, thank. And in reality, we sometimes only need the encouragement of one teacher to make all the difference in our lives.

So, how does this relate to art, you might ask?

Well, first let me preface this by saying, I think school administrations have tough jobs as they are being pressured to cut budgets — pushing one agenda over another. Forced to adjust curriculum to what may be deemed more important in order to meet national education standards. And, even now, having to make tough choices in the face of our current health crisis. I get it, it’s not easy.

But, we’ve heard the stories about programs in the arts slashed to make way for more academia and testing. Don’t get me wrong, academics are extremely important, to our children and society as a whole, but at the sacrifice of the arts? I’m not so sure. And, I know I can be a little biased here. It’s just one person’s perspective, after all. But music, theater, painting, sculpture, wood shop, metal shop, industrial drawing, and yes, even home economics (as it was called when I was in high school) each had, and have, a role to play in rounding out a student’s education. Even physical education and after-school sports programs have been ransacked in some instances. And to what cost?

Look, none of us fits the same mold. I feel I was able to benefit by being allowed to pursue a direction that was maybe considered “off-the-grid” by some. And, without facing academic penalties in the process. I’m no teacher by any means, but I think that diversity extends to the arts, too. We shouldn’t skimp on those programs is all I’m saying. Where would I have been without art classes, after all?

One of my good friends from high school, and fellow watercolorist, chose a career in teaching high school art soon after we graduated college at Tyler School of Art. It may not have been the most lucrative path for him to take, but I believe he taught art to his students with a similar passion that our own art teacher taught us with. Hopefully inspiring a new generation of artists and teachers in the process. He, along with a few other close friends who chose that career in education, deserve our praise. Those who bypass more prosperous careers in order to educate others is a noble profession in my opinion. So, I applaud all of you. You have my utmost respect. Especially for those who continue to teach outside the 3 R’s, who recognize those talents that maybe deserve a special nudge onto a different path.

The last point I want to make is this. My mother learned shorthand as a secretary in the steno pool at her first job back in the late ‘40s. Shorthand, right? And ok, I’m a dinosaur for even knowing what that is, but please, please, someone teach our kids how to write cursive for crying out loud. If for nothing else than to learn how to have a decent signature. Or, at the very least, make handwriting an elective like typing class was when I was younger. And, although, I never took that class thinking it was too geeky at the time, but now really wishing I did. At least if I had, I would know how to type using more than just two fingers.

East Pikeland Elementary School by Jesse C. Hulse
® 2018 Jesse C. Hulse All rights reserved.

Life by Art: Part Two

How well do you know your art?

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This is both a tough question and a relatively easy one at the same time.

The other night I was watching a game show, something I find myself doing more often these days. I’m not proud of that fact and clearly there are better ways to spend my idleness, like writing new blogs, or painting, or something other than TV. I also won’t say which game show it was or even who the celebrity contestant was, but the question was simple enough.

Name five famous paintings in 30 seconds.

After the Mona Lisa, he went blank, although managing to throw out The Scream at the buzzer. But, that was it. So, okay, to be fair, remembering names of paintings isn’t that easy. A better question might have been to name five famous artists. But the question was meant to stump the contestant, not make it easy, so it worked. I see a few of you scratching your heads out there, too, so to jog the old noodle…

…in addition to the two he got right, I’ll throw in a few extras… The Last Supper, The Creation of Adam, Starry Night, Birth of Venus, Whistler’s Mother, and American Gothic.

And yes, I looked these up to make sure I had the names correct. That would be embarrassing if I had them wrong, right? But, even if you didn’t recognize these titles, I can guarantee you’d probably know the artists, or at least a few of them. At the very least, you’d recognize the actual paintings if you saw them.

So, artwork wasn’t in this guy’s wheelhouse. I am sure he could rattle off the top 10 actors born after 1990, or which Kardashian he likes to follow. Pop culture questions, no doubt, I would fail miserably at. Maybe it’s just a generational thing, but even pop culture to me was always Andy Warhol and Jackson Pollock. I’m just saying. Generational.

As I said in the opening paragraph about it being a tough question, it’s also an easy one. Art, that is.

You don’t have to be an Art History major to appreciate art.

If you think people have opinions about politicians, put a painting in front of them and watch the opinions start to fly! The easy answer is this: You know what you like and what you don’t like. You may have an affinity for Elvis on black velvet or a seascape you can buy in bulk from Target®. It doesn’t matter. You like what you like. And maybe you’ll hang something on your wall because it matches the drapes or the color of your sofa. Whatever your reason is, it’s your personal taste and no one can argue with you over it, because there is no right or wrong answer.

When I started painting in the mid-70s, I came into modest recognition among a plethora of artists who studied in the Wyeth school of Chester County realism. A culture of art enthusiasts based along the meandering and scenic Brandywine River that runs through Chadds Ford, PA. And okay, it’s not an actual school, it’s just an expression, but Andrew Wyeth was king to many of us in our small enclave of the world. Some local artists made a decent living selling limited edition prints while embracing the Brandywine tradition, and there seemed to be a real value in buying prints from the likes of Peter Sculthorpe or Richard Bollinger, both intrinsically and monetarily. Two guys who did a great job capturing exactly what many people wanted on their walls and built a loyal fanbase in the process. We all had our own styles and we marketed ourselves accordingly. Some more successful than others as we tried to take advantage of an era in local art lore. Collectors of all kinds clamored to own a piece of Chester County and there was a litany of artists and styles to satisfy just about everyone. Some of those artists may argue about the comparison to Wyeth, but they shouldn’t. He was a great artist to emulate.

Funny thing, although I graduated from college with a BFA in design, my first job out of school was with a greeting card company called Norcross. Look it up, it rivaled Hallmark® at one point. Ironically, I was hired not because my college portfolio, but rather, my watercolors. Norcross had recently moved to Chester County from NYC, and they wanted someone on staff who painted like Andrew Wyeth. Trust me, I don’t hold a candle to the guy, or half the artists already on staff there, but was totally honored by the comparison, nonetheless.

A couple of years ago, I did a few paintings depicting scenes of our local golf club, mainly because it meant something to me as a member (albeit being a poor golfer), but also hoping others might feel a similar connection. There was a value in that, I thought. And, don’t get me wrong, you don’t have to own a Rembrandt, or a Wyeth, or even a Hulse to like what you like. But, I implore you to, please, please like something for a reason. Don’t just settle on a shoulder shrug. If you have fond memories of the beach, then that seascape from Target® may be just fine. Some people like to study the brush strokes of Wyeth, or immerse themselves into the colors of Warhol, or are just proud parents of a budding art student. The reason matters not, just find what it is that draws you in, makes you turn back for that second look, or just makes you feel something. Art evokes emotion. Period.

And here’s my point, if you can call it one. Although subjective, art does bombard us every day, whether we want to believe it or not. It has always filled an important slot in our culture, which in my opinion, it has become a little watered-down of late. Limited edition prints don’t move as quickly as they did 20 years ago, originals sell even slower. So, what’s changed?

It’s almost like folks just don’t appreciate art as much as they used to. Which is sad, really, because there’s a value in that appreciation. And, I’m not sure I have all the answers, but maybe it’s just a lack of awareness and exposure? Take your spouse, or friends, or kids — spend a Saturday morning at the Brandywine River Museum or the Philadelphia Museum of Art, you might be surprised at what you’re takeaway will be. Finding value in art is a wonderful thing.

And fyi…Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, Vincent van Gogh, Sandro Botticelli, James Abbott McNeill Whistler, and Grant Wood.

Looking Back from Nine by Jesse C. Hulse
® 2016 Jesse C. Hulse. All rights reserved.

Life by Art: Part One

What’s a good starting point?

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And, why would anyone care anyway, other than the fact that maybe we might all be looking for an outlet of sorts to pass some time?

Before I go any further however, I need to mention this upfront.

Fortunately for all of us, a small contingency of folks are still working hard out there, by necessity more than anything else. Many putting themselves in harm’s way to keep the rest of us safe, or supplied with groceries, or preparing takeout, or delivering the mail, to name only a few. So, let me start there, with a big thank you to those that help provide a little sanity to the insanity that surrounds us at the moment. It’s important to recognize and appreciate all of those folks on the front lines.

For many of us, there are still those who are able to work from home, as in my case. Even though I have the ability to do so, my clients have decided to put a lot of their marketing and advertising needs on hold. It’s a tough call really, because when this all passes, and it will at some point, how do you rationalize to those clients to keep spending money now, to keep marketing, to just keep on keeping on? And they need to in all honesty, just so they don’t get caught playing catchup later on. They really should be trying to stay ahead of the curve so they’re prepared to hit the ground running when all of this craziness breaks. But, it’s hard to convince some folks otherwise, at least at the moment.  

So, here I wait. Like the rest of us. For all this to quickly be in our past. The good news is my mulching is done early this year and the lawn looks great. So, there’s that anyway.

Which brings me back to art. And life.

I started my art career back in high school. My art teacher at the time, Larry Kuzmin, a Chester County artist in his own rights, was instrumental in providing the mentorship I needed to focus on a future in art. Maybe more than even he thought at the time. But, his guidance greatly impacted my future, along with many fellow students, in such a way that we would, or should, be eternally grateful.

He taught watercolor. That was his medium of choice, which ultimately became mine, as well. Sadly, as I recall, he was criticized by the administration for his teaching methods. You see, he taught by example — by actually painting in class, by leading not lecturing, much to the chagrin of the administration who wanted him, I guess, to follow a more structured format. I can’t say for sure what lesson plans he did or didn’t follow, but I do think he liked to torment the administrators to a certain extent. Or, a select few of them anyway. He was an art rebel by any other name. Maybe that explains, to my wife, a lot about me not wanting to follow rules either. That, and my sarcastic anecdotal wisdom, a trait Larry also bestowed upon many of his students. But I digress…

So, we learned to paint by emulating the techniques that Mr. Kuzmin used. We watched him wash in cerulean blue skies and by adding a stroke of alizarin crimson how it would change the entire mood. He’d detail burnt umber and raw sienna stonework, dry brush scrub and weeds, use an ink eraser to add highlights to watery surfaces after everything dried. And because watercolors are well, water and transparent colors, they’re painted in layers, lightest to darkest. So, he taught us patience in the process. His favorite expression, and I’ll paraphrase, “you can’t paint the trees before the sky.”

So, with watercolors, as with life, there’s a process that needs to be followed for just about everything we do. There is always a beginning, a middle, and an end. It’s also a practice I embraced later on in my design career, as well. Every project, regardless of its simplicity or complexity, always had a proper sequence in which to complete and it wasn’t advisable to cut corners. You just can’t jump to the end without running the due course. It’s just the way it is. Watercolors taught me that. A life lesson, perhaps.

Relatable and funny story, and I’ll be quick. I was the art director in a local ad agency a bunch of years back when this recent design graduate came in to show me his portfolio. He was proud of his school assignments and even though his work looked like all the others coming from the same school, I gave him compliments when appropriate and constructive criticism where needed, hoping not to squash his dreams, but being as honest as I could. I asked him what he wanted to do, if we were to hire him. He promptly, and without hesitation, said he wanted to start as an art director. Which was basically, my job, right? So, I asked him what gave him the right to assume that, without starting first at the bottom as a junior designer, or being at the very least, directed by someone else first? His reply was, he had studied art direction in college. And, he was ready to jump to the head of line without paying his dues first. I told him to pack up his stuff and not to let the door hit him on the way out. I had little patience for arrogance back then. Still do, I think.

You see, you can’t do the trees until you’ve painted the sky first. It’s a process. I probably should have said that to him in hindsight, instead of kicking him to the curb. My bad, I guess.

So, take a watercolor moment. Everything that is going on right now is a process that needs to run its due course. Let’s not cut any corners or try and jump to the front of the line. Be safe out there. And patient.

Thanks, Larry.

Whispering Walls by Larry Kuzmin
® 1986 Larry Kuzmin. All rights reserved.