Emese Cuth: Guest Article

I have known Emese for many years, and she is a very fine artist, so I wanted to include her in my list of very special guests.  She is a Hungarian, but now lives in Australia.  Below you can see her short introduction and some of her works.  Maybe we will have that coffee some day.

I am an ethnic Hungarian born in the former Czechoslovakia (today’s Slovakia); a Slovak and Canadian citizen currently living in Sydney, Australia.

At 14, my whole life changed due to a simple event: reading Michelangelo’s biography (Irving Stone: The Agony and the Ecstasy). I fell in love. I started drawing, and nothing has been the same since.

At 15, my family moved to Toronto, Canada. During my high school years I spent almost all of my free time drawing. I enjoyed the support and guidance of my amazing art teacher, dear Ms. Sophie Karman, but other than art classes in high school I never received any other art training. I was simply head over heels in love with my 3B pencils, my beautiful BFK Rives papers, and the ecstasy I experienced while putting pencil to paper.

At 20 I decided to move to Hungary with the intention of studying fine art at the Hungarian University of Fine Arts in Budapest. I applied twice and was rejected on both occasions. Crushed, I finally ended up studying English and Hungarian at ELTE University while supporting myself by working as an English teacher and translator. I received my MA in English language and literature in 2010.

I ended up staying in Hungary for 11 years. Living in Budapest was my own personal agony and ecstasy. The experience was unbelievably beautiful, painful, arduous and blissful – all at the same time. I experienced unspeakably low lows and dizzily high highs. In the end I became depressed because life was too demanding and I had almost no time to draw. Over the course of 11 years I managed to have only 3 solo exhibitions in Budapest.

BUT.

I think I have spent an unhealthy amount of time wallowing in self-pity and brooding over how unfair life is. What I should have been doing all along is to give in to my elemental drive to draw and paint and forget about everything else.

I draw people because to me people are the most fascinating subject matter around. People are so goddamn beautiful. I am constantly in awe. Ceaselessly amazed.

When it comes to creating art, I’m not big on symbols, allegories, subliminal messages, or social-political concerns. My motives are simple and naive: I want to create images that are beautiful. I am also interested in evoking various moods and atmospheres through my drawings; as well as (yes, shoot me in the face) communicating emotions. What I am NOT interested in is portraying illness, ugliness, decay. I am a hypersensitive person who must always keep their eyes focused on beauty; otherwise I’ll become depressed and suicidal. “Beauty is truth, truth beauty,” and so on – you know the drill.

If you want to see more go to the following pages and

Johnny Depp’s Artwork

I might be a bit behind, I know Johnny Depp is a great actor and have enjoyed many of his films but I didn’t know he was an artist.  Although some of his works are not really my cup-of-tea, they are not that bad.

For more go here: Depp Impact

Portrait and a Dream, Jackson Pollock (1953)

Artist: There are no second acts in American lives, said F Scott Fitzgerald. And there was no development for Jackson Pollock (1912-1956) after the 1950 exhibition in New York that included his most beautiful,confident and inexplicable abstract paintings – One: Number 31, 1950, Autumn Rhythm: Number 30, 1950 and Lavender Mist: Number 1, 1950. “After the ’50 show, what do you do next?” mused his widow, the painter Lee Krasner. What Pollock did was disintegrate.

Jackson Pollock
Portrait and a Dream
1953

In the brief, glorious period after moving to Long Island, with its view of the rolling, empty sea that reminded him of the prairies of his western childhood, Pollock invented and perfected his method of pouring, flicking and throwing paint on to a horizontal canvas. He created vortices, arabesques and webs of colour that had the authority of something that demanded to be made, to be told. And as he did so, he kept alcoholism at bay.

But after 1950, he lost everything: nerve, conviction, even singularity. He started to draw Picasso-like biomorphic images, while at the same time revelling in gothic self-pity, as in this wonderful, awful painting. Pollock’s late art is self-referential in the extreme, a theatrical wail for help, a conscious autobiography of self-destruction. No one who followed Pollock’s painting in the 1950s can have been surprised by his death in a drunken car crash on the night of August 11 1956.

Subject: Pollock said the head on the right of this painting was a portrait of himself “when I’m not sober”.

Distinguishing features: Pollock’s magic as a painter is in his refusal to acknowledge a gulf between his painting and himself. He spoke of being “in my painting”. His abstract art is not of the rational, ordering mind but of the entire self. This painting, too, is brutally, hysterically a piece of him. The portrait is a clumsy, violent thing, drawn in spiralling, blotted black lines, with that one open jaded eye and a ridiculously ham-fisted shape propped on a body that is too small – proof that Pollock was no Norman Rockwell, no homely illustrator.

The head is almost attacked with colour: non-representational, ungainly but incongruously alive colour. Transgressing the drawn border between the face and its surroundings, Pollock’s jarringly pretty grafts of colour communicate discomfort and anguish, like the colour of Van Gogh.

Melodramatically, Pollock colours the portrait to contrast with the deathly black-and-white tangle of bodies and the unreadable astral forms on the left. He said part of this “dream” denoted “the dark side of the moon”; Krasner later wished she could remember what else he had said about the painting in a moment of lucid confession. Even without its title, you would guess that it represents a head and its contents, a self and its inner life. In contrast to the total immersion of his supreme abstract paintings, Pollock stands apart from his “inner life”.

In his hour – when he had his hour – Pollock believed the mess inside him was somehow communicable and beautiful. Then, it was. Now, separate from this chaos of dreams, he contemplates its violence, menace, tangled psychosexual mayhem, as baffled as we are.

by Jonathan Jones