AMERICAN SPACE By Peter Frank

North America is a vastness. True, the landscape stretching from one end of the continent to the other is almost unimaginably variegated, and almost nowhere is it as empty as Australia, for instance, or the Asian steppe. But the space of the Northwestern Quadrisphere still yawns and rolls and beckons the human imagination with its fields and mountains, deserts and skies. The indigenous peoples of North America developed integrative, holistic belief systems tying them to the land not least because the land itself, beyond its bounty and its peril, inspired such close association. The peoples that have since occupied Canada, Mexico, and the United States have been similarly awed by the places they have found themselves (although one man’s awe can be another man’s exploitation). The poetics of topography meet those of troposphere almost everywhere in North America: even the most prosaic copse inspires a sense of intimacy, and even the most monotonous plain mesmerizes the mind while hiding, then unleashing, the threat of meteorological spectacle.

American space has been the central subject of Adam Normandin’s painting for over a decade now. For most of that time Normandin’s evident subject matter has been trains – engines, boxcars, cabooses, rails, the whole nine million yards of rail-based freight service in and about the United States. But the full iconography of Normandin’s work indicates that freight trains are not so much his subject as his conceptual armature. The relationship of such a human thing as trains – as object, as infrastructure, as architecture, even as a locus of romantic associations (rural and urban) – to the land and space it traverses is at the heart of Normandin’s pictorial quest. Exacting as his renditions are (to the point where the nation’s most fervent trainspotters collect his work and honor him at their conventions), the painter’s engagement with trains, as his method betrays, bespeaks a vision much bigger than a boxcar.

Normandin’s work comes under the broad but distinctive rubric of Hyperrealism: his rendition of imagery is fixed, precise, and unmistakable, described with a verism so sharp as to challenge rather than reify ordinary sight. Indeed, certain aspects of his approach consign his style to the more narrowly defined genre of Photo-realism: the depiction of speeding trains as almost illegible blurs, for example, recapitulates an effect provided not by the human eye but by the camera. (The other elements in these paintings, however, are exactingly painted, at full rest, setting up an almost vertiginous optical conundrum between apparent motion in photographic terms and apparent fixity in optical terms.)

For the most part, Normandin treats his trains and train elements as self-contained, even monumental presences, capturing their great detail and equally their plainness. In this he continues an American tradition of the lucid, an arc of neo-classicism that courses throughout the 19th century and undergoes many metamorphoses in the 20th before re-coding into the Photo-Realism made possible by Pop Art. Normandin professes the influence of Edward Hopper, and clearly reconsiders in his own work the light, composition, and still yet vibrant atmosphere found in the older painter’s outdoor pictures. Those qualities entered Hopper’s work permanently when the New York-based painter made several visits west. Normandin, himself a New York native now living in Los Angeles, echoes Hopper’s “light journey” by bathing his pictures in the high, unmodulated but haze-tinged sunshine he now inhabits.

Normandin also acknowledges the examples set by Richard Estes and John Register – a complementary pair, one employing Photo-realist methods in glittering portrayals of an oddly empty New York City, the other resorting to a more atmospheric Hyperrealism in his paintings of and near the Los Angeles coastline. Both artists are masters at describing space as place and vice versa, a continuing pursuit of painters at least since the Dutch Golden Age. In this regard – and for all he has taken from Estes – Normandin treats his trains and train elements not as things in themselves so much as markers in a context of light and space; he thus aligns himself stylistically with (Southern and Northern) California Photo- and Hyperrealism (Register’s not least), which has always been about light and the mutability of perception, as opposed to the Eastern preoccupation with the thing itself and the identity of subject matter.

In his earlier work Normandin did explore more conventional Hyperrealist subjects such as buildings, storefronts, and street vehicles. These images are still marked by a sensitivity to space as described by light, and by architecture – not the image of structures, but the architecture of the picture itself, how the lines and borders predominating in the painting relate to one another and to the picture plane. Working his way through images of taxis, walls, and neon signs, Normandin perfected the soundness of his compositional strategy – a strategy, he himself observes, that brings him close to Mondrian in its reliance on clarity and rectilinear exactitude. In maintaining this formality Normandin returns us to the neo-classicism of a young United States (and a revolutionary Europe). He also conjures the neo-neo-classicism of the Precisionist movement, an interwar phenomenon in American painting that, in the wake of photography, conflated realism and cubism. Indeed, it would be justified to describe Normandin as something of a “neo-precisionist.”

What, then, to make of the wild, explosive graffiti that festoons so much of the rolling stock Normandin portrays especially in his most recent work? These insolent ballooning forms seem to contradict the very core of his aesthetic. The artist argues that, in effect, they come with the landscape. His faithfulness to his subject matter, he says, requires that he depict them as found, that including them in his paintings roots his trains in their social as well as physical environment. This makes sense as far as it goes (never mind that more than a few of his paintings are composites) but it also speaks to a greater fundament in Normandin’s art: its search not for artistic perfection nor for reportorial veracity but for equilibrium between the two. His is an art that favors neither truth nor beauty, but embraces both. Normandin’s work demonstrates that truth is beauty, that the real in all its plainness is a place of poetic transport. This, perhaps, is the most American quality of Adam Normandin’s oeuvre: as William Carlos Williams put it, “no poetry but in things.” For all the expanse of the North American continent, its allure comes down to the interaction of its air with its artifacts. Normandin’s art persuades us that such is the case.

Getting Things Done

Lately, it seems that I have been receiving a lot of inquiries about my process.

Typically, I avoid such discussion, preferring instead that my work speak for itself. The ends justify the means, after all, and I think getting caught up in talk about process can easily become a distraction, if not disenchanting to the point of the work. -When you know a magician’s secret, the fun of the trick disappears. I also find this discussion a bit challenging, since I am not always conscious of how I go about doing things. Instinct guides me through most things in life, and I have never put a lot of thought into my methodology in order to articulate it.

All that said, I do appreciate having someone’s interest, regardless of reason. Also, my process is anything but mysterious, so I will write some things about it and hope that it satisfies all those that may be curious. I don’t want to bore anyone with specific technical data, so if you’d like to know what brand of brushes I use or where I bought my easel, please write me directly.

The starting point for me is usually born in photography. Sometimes, I have a concept in mind before I shoot, and then go out in the field to gather reference. But this doesn’t happen very often. For the most part, I have absolutely no idea in mind when I wander the rail yards with my camera. My hope is to randomly stumble upon something inspiring. This “no-plan” plan, may sound lazy, but it is a conscious and deliberate action that has taken me years to master. My goal is to let go of all preconceived ideas and listen only to the creative voice in my head while in the moment. Indeed, most of my paintings come about in this manner. For me, the unexpected thrill is far more enticing than anything I could ever contrive. My heart speeds up whenever I see the way shadows can drape across a surface, or the majesty of a spray-painted message, layered among the rust and rail coding. For me, it’s all about contrasts -Texture, light quality, and weathered colors excite me and when it comes to painting, photography is the first tool that I use to gather information.

Back in the studio, I work in photoshop to compose and work through my photos. I often make changes; move things around, add or remove details to isolate and refine whatever idea is at the root of my inspiration. Cropping is also very instrumental in storytelling and I frequently utilize details from several photographs to make one single composition. On rare occasion, a painting comes from a single photo. But still, I always make adjustments to better suit the idea. Once I decide upon a composition for a painting, all the reference photos serve to help me to make the painting as convincingly realistic as possible. As I mentioned above, I do not employ a lot of thought while shooting, and so I don’t really know if I have anything worthwhile when in the field. It is not until the photoshop stage, where ideas solidify and compositions for paintings come together.

In the next phase, I loosely sketch my composition on the canvas. I don’t get fussy at this point, rather just draw a basic road map to follow and a simple pencil line does the trick. I keep either a printed photograph by my easel or work directly from the computer screen as a guide. My aim with the sketch is to lock in on placement and proportion of the all the elements, and not to resolve any fine details. When I am satisfied with the sketch, I seal it on the canvas with clear gesso. I like to add a drop of paint to make a tint, since I prefer working from a more neutral surface color, rather than white. When the gesso is dry, I sand to remove any texture left behind. Then, working back to front, I apply paint to the canvas. Layer by layer, colors are blocked in to form an underpainting. Gradually, I refine details until the painting starts to take on a life of its own. This is when things start to get interesting, as I no longer feel in control of the painting. Instead, the painting directs me to what it needs, and my hand just follows what I am told. In these moments, the process becomes somewhat of a compulsion and time flies by as I dig deeply into the minutiae. When fatigued, I put the painting aside and out of view. I have found that taking breaks like this are very important. They allow my brain to stop obsessively problem solving, and they also help my eyes to see things freshly when I return. If something looks off, I back up and re-work areas of the painting until satisfied. This cycle repeats until there is nothing more I can possibly do. When my mind wanders off to the next idea, I know it is time to finish the painting. The final step is to apply a few coats of varnish and sign the back. I have found that keeping track of time can be somewhat destructive to my creativity, so I try not to do this. Generally speaking, though, paintings can take up to several months to complete, depending on size and complexity.

When it comes to process, my mind and heart are truly at their freest. For me, the making of each painting is its own unique love affair. Some are easy and short lived, while others are challenging and feel like they take a lifetime …All are worthwhile though, and I learn something new about myself with each one. When I am in the flow, emotions ricochet around my brain, and I get lost in reflective thoughts about life. I get so entrenched sometimes, that I am not necessarily conscious of the painting in front of me. I must frequently step away from my easel throughout the day, to gauge progress and to assess what to do next. More than anything else about my art, process is the thing I cherish most of all. -It is my own personal pleasure in life. The actual paintings are secondary for me. They are the physical manifestations of a cathartic experience. -Souvenirs, if you will, and I have little attachment to them. If anything, the paintings serve to remind me of certain moments in my life. I have always been the sort of person to figure things out on my own, rather than follow instructions. This isn’t necessarily a good thing, but it is my nature. Somehow, and despite difficulties involved, I have managed to grow and learn a thing or two along the way. Having had such limited resources available for so long, I am programmed to make do with whatever I have at hand, to get things done. This has been the basic philosophy throughout my life and among the reasons I identify with freight trains. No matter how challenging things can get, the journey is what matters above all. It is where we learn, grow and discover the most valuable things that life has to offer.

ON THE RUN

There is a proverb from the Crow Nation that says “One must face fear, or forever run from it”. Of course, many other cultures have their own variation of this same wisdom.

I know a few things about fear, as I have spent a great deal of my life running from it. It is no secret that an artist’s life is anything but easy and mine has certainly been no exception. For me, fear has come in all shapes, sizes and colors  -I will spare you the details, but let’s just say if you name it, I have probably been afraid of it. Fear is an excellent tool for motivation sometimes. It is also quite effective in manipulation; Parents, teachers, religions and governments all have been known to use fear to their benefit. I think it is fair to say that we are taught about fear from a very young age.  

Recently, my fears have manifested themselves around loss. In this chapter of life, my greyhound, Olive, became a senior citizen. Of course, she had been aging all along, but her years never really registered with me before. Her face had become white, eyes cloudy, and the day to day routines were becoming somewhat challenging. Still, Olive remained a happy dog and always did her very best to please. For more than eleven years, Olive was by my side. She was part of every major event in my life, and of course, the small ones too. She was the first consideration in just about every decision my wife and I made together. Few people realize this, but adopting Olive was actually the final deciding factor, in leaving the security of my day job of twelve years (I was a studio artist for an industrial design firm). I had a great deal of fear during this transition, and Olive helped me get through. Whenever I would go shooting in the rail yards, Olive always had my back. She would also keep a close eye on me in the studio, making sure all was in order while I worked away on my canvases. I think I will always find great joy in the thought that, long after I’m gone, my paintings will be authenticated by the greyhound fur stuck to the varnish. In my off hours, Olive always stayed close by, quite literally.  She would even follow me into the bathroom!  In large part, this sort of thing is consistent with typical greyhound behavior. They are known to bond very strongly with their humans. Still, it always felt more personal with Olive somehow. I had very quickly come to rely upon her support in my life. How could I not?  She was absolutely delightful, and her presence felt like a promise of strength. With her help, indeed, I managed to face a lot of my fears.  

When Olive turned 12, it became very apparent to me that the end was near. Some greyhounds live longer, but for the most part, 12 is a pretty good life span. As much as I tried to deny it, Olive’s body was gradually slowing, and starting to fail. I looked for any excuse I could find, to dismiss her symptoms. Ultimately though, there is just no escape from truth or time …really, for any of us.  Still, and no matter what may have been ailing her, Olive knew exactly what I needed and never failed to bring ease to my concerns. Towards the end, I think Olive was more worried about me, than the other way around. I suppose she just sensed my anxiety, and acted accordingly. More than ever, Olive stayed closer to my side, even though getting around wasn’t so easy anymore. During this time, fear weighed very heavy upon me. I was afraid for Olive. I was afraid that she would need me, and I couldn’t be there to help her, as she had always done for me. I found it near impossible to leave our home, since Olive had difficulty maintaining traction on our concrete floors. Just walking around the loft could be treacherous. What if she slipped and needed help getting up? -or worse? Of course, we added rugs, blankets and anything else we could think of doing to make life easier for her. But, I became somewhat of a recluse anyway. I just couldn’t enjoy being out with friends, with all the worry I felt for my girl at home. It didn’t matter to me that she would just be sleeping for the most part. It is only now with hindsight, that I realize how much I was consumed by fear in this chapter. It also never occurred to me that Olive had absolutely no fear whatsoever. Now that I think of it, she was actually very happy-go-lucky! Perhaps, Olive just understood that death is a natural part of life. She knew her time was coming to an end, and she intended to make the most of every moment she had left. Olive so clearly expressed her love for us and appreciated all the love she received in return. She also didn’t hesitate to soak in all the wonderful things in her life that she could still enjoy. In her final moments, Olive seemed to understand exactly what was happening. In the most sweet and gentle manner, Olive let us know that she was happy and at peace. What a gift. It was in this moment, that I realized something for the very first time and will never forget: Time is truly precious and love is forever. 

Suddenly, I was afraid no more.

Critical Analysis

 

“This is not a pipe” – René Magritte

Graffiti details have been a part of my work for more than twenty years. As a young urban landscape painter, The Venice Beach Pavilion was among the very first places I focused on. If you are not familiar, this is an abandoned concrete structure, located adjacent the famous boardwalk in Venice Beach, California. Over the years, it has often been featured in film and television, and has even become a tourist destination in Los Angeles. Graffiti artists have routinely practiced their craft here. Layer upon layer of spray painted tags and colorful imagery come together to form a mosaic of expressive textures and patterns. It is a place where different cultures overlap as urban blight meets the serenity of the beach. I was captivated by this place back then. In many ways it actually helped form the path that my work would eventually take. Since then, my painting skills have refined, and the subject matter I now choose to paint has evolved. But overall, my creative vision and ideas about art have remained the same.

Freight trains are my current fascination. I have been exploring this subject almost exclusively for eleven years at this point. My world has become entrenched with these behemoths and my studio and home are quite purposefully located in the vicinity of several major rail yards. Tracks web throughout my neighborhood and I frequently hear the sound of train horns and the squeal of brakes as the freight cars slowly come to a stop. I have written quite a bit about my interest in this subject, as well as being interviewed and written about in magazines and catalogs. I have been fortunate that both the art world and rail communities have taken some notice to my work and I have gained many wonderful friendships along the way. I am lucky. As an artist, I have not only discovered a rich and inspiring muse, but I have gotten some professional recognition in the process. Graffiti is still very much a part of my world, given the great amount of freight trains that bear the marks of ambitious taggers. The railroad companies spend millions on the removal and prevention of this graffiti, but still, it remains an undeniable part of modern railroading, not to mention the streets of my community. In my world, each day brings new rail cars with graffiti wonders to be discovered. Cultural crossover is still very much alive and I remain compelled as ever to include this detail in the overall narrative of my work.

For many reasons, I am drawn to realism in fine art. The artists I admired as a child, and to this day, were extremely skilled at representing the world as they saw it. With remarkable technical precision, these artists painted every conceivable detail, and taught me the best kind of beauty is often within the most ordinary moments of life. The subjects they painted may not be noticed under normal circumstances, but became profoundly sublime when processed through the hands of a skilled artist. Ultimately, this is the primary goal of my work; to represent the world as I see it, just as the artists that came before me did with theirs. I must admit that I have found this prospect challenging. Never mind the many years of hard work and painting know-how required in the crafting of photorealism, but I have found that the idea of representing the outer lying fringes of society to be a difficult concept for some people to appreciate. I suppose that life is hard enough for some people, and they don’t necessarily want a reminder of this when looking at art. That’s OK. Occasionally, people express their discontent with my paintings and can be highly skeptical of my intentions. This goes with the territory of being an artist, and I’m OK with that too. As difficult a pill this is to swallow, such push-back reminds me of the importance of my goals and that I must continue to work very hard to achieve them. Sometimes, despite all considerations, feathers get ruffled by the creative process. Whether or not this is a valid reason to affect my work is arguable, but I think people have every right to react to art, based upon how it makes them feel. Also, this is an incidental occurrence and not all people feel the same way. I find this phenomenon extremely interesting and thick with irony, so I intend to dig a little deeper in order to understand it better -Stay tuned to this bat channel! Regardless, I am not above making improvements in my work, and I do try to carefully consider the constructive messaging within the harsh dialog that can sometimes occur in critical analysis. On the other hand, criticism can sometimes be a compliment in disguise. Photorealism, when done well, can be somewhat illusionary. Especially when seen through the filters of social media platforms. The craft involves the replication of life’s details as convincingly as possible, and I think this can easily lend to certain misunderstandings. I am not the first artist to experience this, and surely won’t be the last. Nonetheless, I remain grateful when my work connects me to people from all walks of life and stirs their emotions.

-Peace

Pack

There is quiet solitude in the rail yards. I deliberately visit them in the early morning hours or late afternoons when shifts have ended for the day and no one is around. Being alone in the yards is exactly how I prefer to experience them. I am able to take my time, study details and allow myself to be moved by a subject. Occasionally, I stumble upon wildlife. Most often, birds of common species like pigeons or gulls that have perched along the tops of parked train cars and the power lines above. They are at rest and seem to be enjoying the same seclusion that attracted me. In my years of exploring rail yards, I have learned to look for these birds, as they are an indication that no one is present to startle them. Perhaps more accurately stated… No one present to call the cops on me. Far less often, I see feral dogs, coyotes and foxes wandering the yards in search of a meal. Whenever I see them, I pause for a moment with a sense of awe. Rail yards do not afford much consideration for any species of life. Hazards are everywhere. Aside from the obvious peril of a fast moving train, rusty spikes, broken glass and who knows what else could be lurking in the weeds and debris. The risk of danger is always just one misstep away. In all this ugliness though, something truly splendid is revealed: An unyielding will to live despite overwhelming obstacles and odds against survival. I cannot help but feel a certain bond with these creatures.