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Living Arts
The Fabric of Life
by Patricia Alfano
Art imitates life, right? Or is it the other way around?
Does artistic expression spring from our experiences; or do we create events as a result of what we see and hear? Maybe it’s all a rich tapestry where both the experience and the expression are one and the same.
As a young art student at the Philadelphia College of Art (now University of the Arts), I fancied myself as an artist living apart from society, in my own little world and being as weird as I wanted to be. I would later discover that true artists lift the invisible veil that is spun from the intertwined threads of human experience and embrace the essence of their surroundings.
Beyond the ancient walls in which I studied, I saw the unsophisticated nature of my neighborhood as cheesecloth that was covered with wine and tomato sauce stains. Outdated music, loud conversations and people who thought cooking was a religion were not the precious fibers I coveted for the silk chip I wore on my shoulder. But the more I tried to shake the cheesecloth, the more it stuck to my shoes.
Uncle Frankie regularly burned holes in my cheesecloth universe with his fat, smelly cigars and boisterous personality. He was a semi-pro boxer whose life revolved around cheap booze, stray dogs, voluptuous women and gambling. His world was a kaleidoscope of deal-making, perpetual hangovers and shady characters, all rotating around the jazz that blared from his radio.
One chilly autumn day, I was leaving a prestigious art exhibit at the college when I spotted my uncle standing on the corner across the street. I looked around, hoping none of my new cashmere friends, who painted with expensive oils, would see the short, stocky man in the fedora blowing smoke rings into the air. But it was too late. He had caught sight of me and began waving his arms.
“Zia!” he shouted, “I want you to come and see this piece of art I just bought.” His thumb, forefinger and pinky were extended from his hand as he shook it back and forth in the air. “It’s a real pip! You’re gonna love it.”
Uncle Frankie always sought free appraisals of his acquisitions whenever he could; and as his favorite niece, I was more often than not the one chosen to do the evaluations.
Reluctantly, I followed him to his dingy apartment and patiently waited for him to drag the masterpiece from the basement. As I looked around, I realized that home décor was something that interested neither him nor my aunt. The apartment walls were lined with aging photographs of himself in the boxing ring, interrupted by an occasional religious portrait that was adorned with palm fronds twisted into a crucifix. The furniture was falling apart and the wallpaper was gone from the walls while the paste remained. His home made a statement somewhere between early flea market and late salvage yard.
My uncle finally emerged with a large frame that was almost as tall as he was. There, against a black velvet background, was a painting of several dogs playing poker. The image was an exact likeness of the sum of my uncle’s life and choices. To me, it was disgusting. To him, it was the Mona Lisa.
“Nice,” I said, straining a smile.
Curious about the choices one makes when it comes to selecting a piece of art, I decided to spend the afternoon with my uncle and discuss his recent purchase. That day I would learn that cheesecloth could be beautiful when placed in the right hands.
Not long after I finished school, I moved to Berkeley, California, which appeared to me as a swath of raw silk with a nubby texture of olive green and periwinkle. Protest movements were in full force and controversial posters hung everywhere, reflecting unrest and a call to fight the status quo.
I became captivated by the poster art of David Lance Goines; an artist whose work I felt was both compelling and inspiring. His poster, Qui Tacet Consentit, which means “silence gives consent,” depicts young men throwing rocks at Russian tanks. Visually moving, it not only mirrored the turbulent times, but served as a graphic call to arms.
Today, Goines continues to produce extraordinary posters, including those for the Chez Panisse restaurant, which capture the eatery’s essence in their beautiful lines and sumptuous, pearly colors. In turn, the establishment, with its sustainably sourced, organic and seasonal fare, inspires the artist as it provides nourishment for the spirit as well as the body. For the restaurant’s fifth anniversary, Goines created a beautiful poster and an equally beautiful sentiment:
“Art responds to the environment, and in turn creates it. People who live in different places have different aesthetics, and one of the reasons is the light that surrounds them. My taste in color was formed by velvet brown hills dotted with dull green live oak, soft blue skies, and frequent fog and overcast. Northern California shadows are in muted shades, sunset comes early, and twilight dawdles imperceptibly into night. Winter light is shades of grey; no bright sun-glittering snow, no deep midnight-blue zenith. The light is gentle, and my eyes dilate to drink it in. I do not care for bright colors. Southern California’s harsh desert light makes whites whiter and shadows blacker. The eye stops down to a pinpoint. Only the most strident colors register; bleached retinas have no patience with pearly pastels. If I lived in Los Angeles, I would be a different man altogether.”
Ah, Los Angeles—a place where art goes outside to play in the form of graffiti. It covers the city like torn lace on a sensuous body. Its message of hope and despair marks boundaries and illustrates the heartbeat of the city. Bright, dancing forms give off an energy that can be disturbing, enlightening or passionate. Somber notes warn of a line that must not be crossed or talk about the darker side of human nature.
As the years have shaped my own personal cloth, I’ve learned much since those early cheesecloth days. I’ve come to the realization that as we meander through our collective journey, our perceptions and experiences become the threads that pass through the eye of the needle that weave the planet together. And as in a weaving, when one thread is changed to a different color or texture, the entire tapestry changes.
The artist must then choose whether to adjust the rest of the fabric, or let the new fiber remain without changing anything. Bright and gaudy or soft and quiet, new and shiny or torn and tattered, the woven tapestry becomes an outward manifestation created from an internal vision. It provokes the senses to feel, see and ponder.
So it is with life.
Patricia Alfano lives in beautiful Ocean Beach, California and works at a local university. Contact her at pat_alfano@hotmail.com or visit her blog at bohemianopus.com.