Showing up in NYC took some balls on my part and one slice of craziness. When I dropped in fresh from the sweet sunshine of “SoCal” (southern california) I did not know what to expect. I only knew that there was REAL art instruction here, and I wanted ALL OF IT! I was starved for some real painting instruction. I mean, everything I came across until now was peanut gallery caliber. Art instructors would exclaim “draw with your feeling” and “it looks too outliney”. It was this BS. that inspired me to drop out of the best Art Colleges in the country.
I craved to immerse myself into the classical tradition or art techniques. The roots of every great work I’ve seen in museums has been grounded in classical painting instruction. I awed at these works, burning a holes in it from studying the paint strokes so closely.
So I finally arrived in the heart of this sub culture of realists and I would need to prove myself. The private studios were the most selective and finicky, making them the hardest to get into. Then there was timeless watering holes that everyone knew about like The Art Students League. It was common to mingle with crazies who mumbled to themselves and started fist fights to settle easel arrangement disputes. They have let in a wider array of clients since its hay day, back when the greatest illustrators illuminated their hall ways with the same classical training that thrived in Paris during the turn of the 19th century.
One by one I started taking drawing lessons and oil painting for beginners. Pretty soon I was immersed in figure drawing lessons, portrait oil paintings, and realistic oil painting techniques from 9 am to 10 pm at night, in 3 different city districts 6 days a week.
I was having my own personal art instruction Reniassance in Manhattan.
I did whatever it took to get into these studios. I rubbed elbows with the fist fighters at Art Students League, I read oil painting books at night to get my bearings on anatomy for the artist I attended Frank’s lectures. I lugged around a 3 foot tall iron pipe armature with 20 lbs
of clay stuck to it. I dragged it onto every subway tunnel, through every 19″ turnstyle with my paint box in the other hand and a backpack stuffed with food, burly winter jackets, charcoal sticks, pencils, markers, and drawing pads. You could imagine I looked like a one man band covered in smeared clay, splashed paint and caked plaster.
I even snuck into the Graduate school to sit in on master painting classes. I know this wasn’t right and I wouldn’t not do that again, but at the time I was burning for these skills. I thought I was 100 years too late, like all the great masters who knew how to draw had passed away and I missed the boat.
When the graduate school added a steel turnstyle and electronic key cards, with heightened security I thought I was “game over” for sure. They could throw me in the slammer for sliding into these classes. Luckily I made a friend on the inside and he gave me his key card, so I could complete the next few classes with this master instructor.
That one class has changed the way I approach oil painting FOREVER.
Keep it fresh, keep it frosty,
Evan P
