Sometimes an experience with a work of art resonates so deeply with our person that we feel as though we were a part of its composition. Like a story whose pages magically unfurl the novel of our own lives, we are hit by the breadth and depth of a journey that feels immediately familiar and cuts to the core. Such was my recent encounter with the work of famous portraitist Chuck Close.
A few weeks ago, a friend invited me to spend a Sunday afternoon with her at the Corcoran Gallery of Art. With no sense of what might be on exhibit, yet eager to muse over art with a friend, I quickly consented. As we approached the building that lazy Sunday, I noticed a banner displaying a gridded-out image and the name Chuck Close. As I stared at this vibrant display, I realized that the artist had employed a process strikingly similar to the one I had just learned in a summer design course and somehow felt that he and I had met before. Minutes later, my friend and I ascended a set of heavily-treaded stone steps into an entire gallery of Close’s work, a chronological survey no less. Almost immediately, my jaw locked into the open position and remained that way for the next few hours. That afternoon read much like a romance novel, as piece by piece I fell in love with the story that unfolded before my eyes, discovering striking ties to my own woven deep within its pages.
The beauty of this particular survey is that through it I did not just experience the final products of Close’s art-making; instead I experienced the art-making itself. In addition to completed pieces, the Corcoran’s exhibit showcased intricate stencils through which Close and his associates pressed pigmented pulp pieces, a grey-scale key used for translating color values from photograph to canvas, and a series of woodcuts — each representing a step in the process towards a final work of art. I, like other visitors to the gallery, thus experienced not just fully-formed works, but the story of an artist’s development and the stories of each work’s maturation.
A look at Close’s earlier work reveals an unmistakable process that cuts across his output from various points in time. Close almost jokingly refers to his earlier painting as that of a “junior abstract expressionist.” Studying the paintings of de Kooning and the like, he began a slow journey towards understanding and then redefining a movement. In the ‘70s, Close began employing a gridding process, where he experimented with mezzotints, wovens, and airbrushes to create unique portraits. By the early 1990s, he had developed amazing textiles ranging from huge handmade paper pieces to rugs and tapestries. In the past twenty years, he has broadened his methods even further, masterfully graduating into a variety of printmaking mediums, such as woodcuts, intricate silk screens, and daguerreotypes.
Close’s appreciation for and understanding of abstract expressionism is immediately evident in his work, but it is as one who has mastered the techniques and transformed them into an entirely new genre. His work today is anything but junior. Square by square, inch by inch, Close translates bits of images from one source to the next, working steadily until their essence has been recreated as accurately as possible. His final products are somewhat like glorified pixilated images, where viewers can see the grid up close and experience how each part helps make up the whole. They are, however, richer and deeper than anything digital, executed by hand with careful planning and an incredible attention to detail.
The featured works maintain little room for mistakes and second-guesses, as Close’s processes are often irreversible — burnishing a piece of metal, layering pigment on top of already-dried pigment, and making paper by hand, just to name a few. Each image, however, becomes a way for Close to invite others into his process. Many of Close’s final works leave tracings of the grid evident, allowing viewers to imagine and step into the ways in which he created them. Simultaneously, much of Close’s artwork is collaborative in nature, starting often with a photograph or drawing of an artist who has inspired him in some way and then ballooning into group manifestos, involving many talented artists and apprentices who help him turn ideas into realities.
Glimpses of Close’s artistic development emerged further in a video that played in the lobby, which featured him in his summer studio painting from a wheelchair. Here, Close talks about his childhood: groomed by a family that appreciated and encouraged his artistic tendencies, failing miserably at traditional school assignments but able to garner reprieve by turning in creative extra credit projects, and hit hard by the death of his father at the age of ten, yet rebounding quickly to a love of painting. From early on, Close’s journey is a mix of immense tragedy and immense joy. While his father’s death could have easily crushed him, as could a major spinal injury in the 1980s that left him paralyzed, Close beautifully resurrected himself in both instances by channeling his energies into creative work.
Even amidst immense difficulties, Close persisted and pursued his passion for art-making. This is where Close’s story speaks to my own. My personal experience with Close’s work is akin to that of a girl who wakes up on a plane next to a stranger who later becomes her sweetheart. The encounter was not planned, goodness knows it could not have been planned if I had wished it so. Yet, there is an unmistakable trace of a master craftsman delicately weaving a story into his loom without my knowledge.
Waiting for my own artistic vocation to unfold, I have been inspired and encouraged by the journey of Close. In his own small way, he has reminded me to wait patiently for frayed seams to come together, illustrating how seemingly fragmented pieces can converge to form a splendorous quilt of beauty.
Close became stronger as an artist by taking the time to master his craft, and executing precision and foresight in each step of translating an image for a new medium. Similarly I, as someone pursuing a love of design, craft, and creativity, must work diligently to realize the fullness of my calling as an artist. But simultaneously, like Close as well, I must realize that sometimes our grandest plans become grounded, but only because something much bigger is in store.