Tag Archives: Art

JIMMY GRASHOW on CREATIVITY, JETHRO TULL and ART

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If you’re a fan of Sixties’ music you might recall Jethro Tull’s album “Stand Up.” Remember that wonderful album cover? The person who created the woodcut for the cover is one of the most passionate and creative people I have ever known. His name is Jimmy Grashow.

Jimmy and I were sitting at his kitchen table not long ago, sharing a pot of coffee, when the Jethro Tull album cover came up. “How did you get the Jethro Tull gig, Jimmy?” I asked. (Off the album” “Living in the Past.”)

“I knew someone.  Simple as that. I did a bunch of album covers through Columbia records, The Yardbirds, Tom Rush, Ramsey Lewis and a number of classical music covers, as well.”

The conversation quickly veered.  If you know Jimmy, you know that he often returns to one of his favorite subjects, passion.  “Why, in your opinion, do some talented artists succeed while others don’t?” 

“Talent is part of the quotient, Charlie, but I don’t think it’s the biggest piece.  In order to be what I consider a successful artist there must be  passion and process.  Those are the two big pieces,” Jimmy said.

Jimmy talked about his passion for creating. “I can sit and work on the most miniscule details for an entire day and at end of the day, I’ll think, ‘What am I, freakin’ crazy?’”  I immediately understood. I mentioned to Jimmy that there are times when I’ll work on a story’s sentence for hours and in the end I’ll discard it. “But that’s passion, Charlie.  The ability to have an idea and to follow that idea through, wherever it leads you.” 

Process is the other part of the success quotient that Jimmy speaks about. “Some think in terms of beginning and ends.  They’ll say, ‘I can’t wait until I’m finished,’ while an artist will get lost in the process. There’s a big difference.  Building, creating, doing,” he said. “Build it piece by piece wherever its going.  I get completely immersed in the process.  I think you must do that in order to create.”  

Jimmy’s favorite medium is cardboard. His success with cardboard is well known, and standing in his studio, surrounded by beautifully colored, cardboard peacocks, monkeys, an enormous Uncle Sam, which he’s working on for a Memorial Day Parade, and an entire cardboard city is to be surrounded by Jimmy’s life and art.  “You can tell an artist not by what he does, but by the material he uses, Charlie.  Some use stone, some use metals. I use cardboard and paper.”

One of Jimmy’s recent works, Corrugated Fountain, (see below) recalls the Trevi Fountain in Rome.   A positively brilliant work, it is the perfect expression of Jimmy’s exploration of man and mortality.  Jimmy told Art Daily, “I wanted to make something heroic in its concept and execution with full awareness of its poetic absurdity. Water and cardboard cannot exist together. I wanted to try to make something eternal out of cardboard. To work in the face of mortality is the idea that made Corrugated Fountain an irresistible project for me.” 

For some incredible photos of the Jimmy’s fountain, click here Corrugated Fountain

 

THE EXPRESSIVENESS OF SILENCE

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Recently, a few friends and I gathered in a local pub when the subject turned to “silence and space” in art. When one of my friends mentioned that he once heard Pete Seeger say, “It’s not what you put into a song, it’s what you leave out that counts,” the music of jazz great Miles Davis came to mind. When I began listening to Miles I was struck by his ability to do more with silence and empty space than any musician I had ever heard. Miles didn’t fill every second with sound. He understood the power of silence. Listen to “It Never Entered My Mind.”

Great artists have the ability to create with less, allowing us our own space to develop our own story: Francisco Goya, in his Tauromaquia series used blank canvas and shadings of grey and white to create the feeling of space. In this sketch, Goya uses empty space to dramatize the fury of a singular moment of horror during a bullfight.

Johan Sebastian Bach understood the power of silence and space as well. During Bach’s B Minor Mass, at the end of the section marked Crucifixus (Crucification), the music slowly sinks into silence, followed by a pause—a moment of contemplation, a moment of space—and then, an explosion of joy and revelation in the Et resurrext. (The Resurrection)

A year ago I received a note from a friend. “Would you read a story I wrote? Something’s missing. I’m looking for a word or words that will give the last few paragraphs more impact, more oopmh. Nothing seems to work.”  I read her story and while I claim no great editorial skills, I felt the character development was wonderful, the story had great pace, from the inciting incident, which created conflict, through the midsection’s rising tension, right up until the crisis point or conflict resolution. The ending was perfect. I sent my friend a note. “I could see your character in the last scene and I understood his problem. I knew his motivations and I was there with him. You didn’t have to tell me the character was desperate or frantic, you’d done all the heavy lifting earlier. Your shorter words and shorter sentences built a moment of high drama. Your writing shows great respect for your reader; you allow them the space to be creative; you allow them the space to furnish the emotion. Less is more. In my view, that’s what often makes for great storytelling.”

The power of space and silence were never more evident to me than when I spoke before a gathering of college students and their families a number of years ago. The subject was the value of family stories. I was undecided about including the story of my mother’s sister’s death, a baby who died seven hours after she was born, until the moment I began speaking. I feared that I’d have difficultly controlling my emotions, yet, within a few minutes—I don’t know why—I started telling the story.

As I feared, her death and burial, and the emotions that the story evoked in me, were still too raw. I bowed my head and my eyes filled with tears; I had no idea how I would go on. Finally, I looked up. I was astonished. The entire front row was crying. I regained my composure. I was able to finish my story.

The events of the day became clear to me later in the evening. During the story’s build-up a number of listeners were probably experiencing a bond with my grandmother, grandfather or me. They were sharing a powerful story and many may have assumed the role of one of the characters in the story. Other listeners may have experienced the same wound and so they filtered my story of the baby’s death through their past. When I paused, the listeners may have been provided the space in which they could explore their thoughts, furnish their own emotions, and develop their own stories.

Miles Davis once said, “‘It’s not about the space you play, but the space you leave.” Allowing for space and silence may be one of the keys to effective creative expression, not only for the artist, but the artist’s audience as well.

THE EXPRESSIVENESS of SILENCE and SPACE in STORYTELLING, MUSIC and ART

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Recently, a few friends and I gathered in a local pub when the subject turned to “silence and space” in art. When one of my friends mentioned that he once heard Pete Seeger say, “It’s not what you put into a song, it’s what you leave out that counts,” the music of jazz great Miles Davis came to mind. When I began listening to Miles I was struck by his ability to do more with silence and empty space than any musician I had ever heard. Miles didn’t fill every second with sound. He understood the power of silence. Listen to “It Never Entered My Mind.”

Great artists have the ability to create with less, allowing us our own space to develop our own story: Francisco Goya, in his Tauromaquia series used blank canvas and shadings of grey and white to create the feeling of space. In this sketch, Goya uses empty space to dramatize the fury of a singular moment of horror during a bullfight.

Johan Sebastian Bach understood the power of silence and space as well. During Bach’s B Minor Mass, at the end of the section marked Crucifixus (Crucification), the music slowly sinks into silence, followed by a pause—a moment of contemplation, a moment of space—and then, an explosion of joy and revelation in the Et resurrext. (The Resurrection)

A year ago I received a note from a friend. “Would you read a story I wrote? Something’s missing. I’m looking for a word or words that will give the last few paragraphs more impact, more oopmh. Nothing seems to work.”  I read her story and while I claim no great editorial skills, I felt the character development was wonderful, the story had great pace, from the inciting incident, which created conflict, through the midsection’s rising tension, right up until the crisis point or conflict resolution. The ending was perfect. I sent my friend a note. “I could see your character in the last scene and I understood his problem. I knew his motivations and I was there with him. You didn’t have to tell me the character was desperate or frantic, you’d done all the heavy lifting earlier. Your shorter words and shorter sentences built a moment of high drama. Your writing shows great respect for your reader; you allow them the space to be creative; you allow them the space to furnish the emotion. Less is more. In my view, that’s what often makes for great storytelling.”

The power of space and silence were never more evident to me than when I spoke before a gathering of college students and their families a number of years ago. The subject was the value of family stories. I was undecided about including the story of my mother’s sister’s death, a baby who died seven hours after she was born, until the moment I began speaking. I feared that I’d have difficultly controlling my emotions, yet, within a few minutes—I don’t know why—I started telling the story.

As I feared, her death and burial, and the emotions that the story evoked in me, were still too raw. I bowed my head and my eyes filled with tears; I had no idea how I would go on. Finally, I looked up. I was astonished. The entire front row was crying. I regained my composure. I was able to finish my story.

The events of the day became clear to me later in the evening. During the story’s build-up a number of listeners were probably experiencing a bond with my grandmother, grandfather or me. They were sharing a powerful story and many may have assumed the role of one of the characters in the story. Other listeners may have experienced the same wound and so they filtered my story of the baby’s death through their past. When I paused, the listeners may have been provided the space in which they could explore their thoughts, furnish their own emotions, and develop their own stories.

Miles Davis once said, “‘It’s not about the space you play, but the space you leave.” Allowing for space and silence may be one of the keys to effective creative expression, not only for the artist, but the artist’s audience as well.

Charles R. Hale