Blog 11 Lechlade – England, Basel – Switzerland, Paris – France

October 11, 2017

Originally intended as a small book, “Glimpses: In which a Casual Traveler Ruminates on Passing Scenes—1989-2011″, I should like to share it with my readers in a more informal manner as a series of Blogs. 

5106179_1ed4fb43England: Lechlade: Visited “Shelley’s Walk”, a tree-lined path that skirts a weathered church. Story goes that it was on one of Percy Shelley’s perambulations here that he composed one of his poems (the name of which I cannot recall!).

Switzerland: Basel: I visit the town hall to see if I can find out anything about my grandfather whom I’ve never known, Jacob Steiner, who came from this city to New York sometime in the late 1800s. My German is faltering; the bureaucrat impatient. “Steiner?” he says with a snort. He points to several volumes. “Steiners!” he says. Without knowing which canton my grandfather came from, apparently it was like asking for “Smith” in New York City! All I had was my grandfather’s name, so I left knowing as little as I did when I came.

top-floorFrance: Paris: At the second landing of the Eiffel Tower, I cannot find the way to the elevator that takes you to the top. Walking up to two uniformed men, I hesitatingly ask (since I did not know the word for “elevator”), “Ou et le sommet?” Both men look at me for a moment and, with a smile, simultaneously raise their index fingers to indicate “up”. Properly embarrassed, I revert to English and ask how I might get there. Again, in unison, they then point to the elevator. (An odd thing for me was that when I reached the top, I could not bring myself to step over to the rail and look out. It was the first time ((but not the last — the fear reoccurred when I climbed to the top of St. Peter’s Dome with Piero Breccia in Rome a few weeks later)) that I discovered I had somehow acquired vertigo — a new thing for me!) Another time my meager French let me down (I can read the language fairly well, having taken the subject in college) was in St. Germain en Laye, taking a bus from the home of Isabelle and Bertrand to spend the day sightseeing in Paris. When the bus stopped at our corner, I stepped on the first step and firmly said, “Trois.” The driver looked at me and said, “Trois?” “Oui,” I answered confidently. He looked pointedly at Cornelia and me and said again, “Trois?” Annoyed, I again said, “Oui!” Once again: “Trois?” Before I could really make a fool of myself by insisting on “three” a kindly old man in a front seat leaned over, held up two fingers and said, “Deux”, pointing at the two of us. For some reason “trois” and “three” were synonymous to me (or at least sounded so) and who knows for how long the driver and I would have been “trois-ing” each other while the busload waited for me to be enlightened? Interesting that, by and large, my poor language skills were never an issue in any of the other countries we visited. Almost to a person, when people saw us in difficulty — in Spain, in Germany, in Holland, in Italy, in Belgium, in Beijing, Shanghai — wherever — they were quick to step in, help out and lead us onto the correct path.



August 29, 2017

THE PURPOSE OF this letter is to acknowledge and to thank the many, many artists, both deceased and those still ‘fighting the good fight’ who have helped me over the past 40-45 years to understand and appreciate the process as well as the product.

Your influence began early, back in the late‘40s when I used to work as a handy-man in Woodstock, New York, clearing woodlots, mowing lawns, tending gardens for the summer residents, most of them artists who came up from the city to join the ever-growing number of plein-airistes flocking to the burgeoning art colony who wanted to spend their time painting rather than mowing their lawns. Even after the summer ended, teachers and students at the Art Students League of New York’s summer school a little way out of town, would spend week-ends and off-hours in town, most willing, even eager, to ‘talk art’ to interested listeners — even handymen at Deane’s, the popular diner on Mill Hill Road. Although neither a painter nor a student of the craft, I had from a child been able to draw, to replicate in pencil whatever I attempted to copy, and almost always carried a sketchbook with me — so ‘listening in’ to the conversations of ‘real’ artists was always too tempting to pass up.

When I began free-lance writing for local newspapers, I eventually focused on art and artists, profiling many of the “Woodstock artists”, spending hours at their studios or over the counter having coffee at Deane’s, listening to them presenting their views, art, journey, comments and work-habits eventually sharing them with my publishers.

Eventually, I grew more and more dissatisfied with the way my writing was being handled by copy-editors, layout people, and the ever-present errors (including the misspelling of the artists’ names in more than one instance) that were being presented to the public under my name. This led to my wife Cornelia and I co-founding our own arts journal — Art Times — in 1984. Over the years, I have since profiled over 100 artists both here and abroad. Some of my essays grew into introductions of monographs by various publishers and even into my own books on artists. Soon, I was interviewing artists in NYC and even as far as Europe and China. By being commissioned by Rosina Florio, past Director of the Art Students League of New York, to write a history of the League, the undertaking broadened my knowledge even further as many past and present League members added their stories to my growing warehouse of art-knowledge.

Through my experience with the Art Student’s League, I began hearing about other arts groups, some local, some regional, others national — even affiliating with some — for example the National Art Club in NYC after Will Barnet sponsored me, and especially The Salmagundi Club, a club that is nearly 150 years old and devotes its resources to artists and their art instead of sales and celebrity. Never much of a ‘joiner’, I was fortunate to become a member of the Artist’s Fellowship, which exists solely to give aid to artists in distress (probably the only meetings I enjoyed attending since each session ended in a specific and meaningful act — giving a hand up to deserving artists across the country). My associations with such art organizations expanded my knowledge of art well beyond any college courses I’d taken.

In 2005-6, I wrote a novel entitled The Mountain that attempts to trace the development of an artist (in literary terms, a “bildungsroman”). Set in the NYC and Hudson Valley areas it includes some history and background of Woodstock and its environs to ‘flesh out’ the influences on my protagonist, Jacob (Jake) Forscher (‘Jacob’ because he wrestles with the angel as do all serious artists, and ‘Forscher’ because, again like all artists, he is a delver, a seeker). The book came about after a conversation over lunch with the artist Jack Levine in a small restaurant in New York City’s Greenwich Village. As usual, the subject of art came up, and specifically Zola’s book The Masterpiece, ostensibly a book about his childhood friend, Paul Cezanne. I asked Jack if he knew of any books in English that traced the life and development of an artist. He could think of none that specifically did so, but several about artists in general. Thus the genesis of The Mountain. I chose the title to reflect Melville’s Moby Dick — in essence, the “Mountain” (Overlook, in the Catskills and visible from Woodstock) is Jake’s ever-illusive ‘white whale’, which he tries to ‘capture’ on canvas. His story, your story, is a fictional re-telling of what you taught me over the years — in fact, I felt very much like a mid-wife rather than an author in ‘creating’ my novel. The Mountain is available as a book on demand or kindle

So, my artist readers, if it were not for sharing those early encounters, the prolonged studio chats, the stories, the exhibitions, the struggles, the insights, the life-sharings for my profiles and books — if it were not for you, dear artist (whether we met face-to-face or only through your art), the artwriter Raymond J. Steiner would never have come into being.

Therefore this letter and my deepest thanks for all of your contributions to my education and for helping make ART TIMES such a valuable resource for artists around the world for over 30 years.

Raymond J. Steiner

Global Warming

February 14, 2017

OK­­­, THEY’VE BEEN back ‘n forthing for some time now about this “global warming” stuff with no indication that they’ll ever reach agreement. Does this cause it? Or this? That? Wait a minute! Does it really even exist? Some claim that it’s simple science. Others, that it’s ‘junk’ science—or no science at all. Well what is it? Who ought we listen to? What ought we believe? Since it’s still “up in the air” (pun definitely intended) ought we care at all? And, if we should care who or what do we point our finger at. An industry? A person? T he truth is, folks, that the case for global warming has long been settled at least as far back as Nineteenth Century France—to be exact, during the heyday of the plein airistes. Any dedicated studio-encased painter could tell you way back then that it was those nutty outdoors ‘painters’ opening their toxic tubes of alizarin crimson, cadmium yellows, Prussian (i.e. ‘fascist’) blue and sap green being brazenly opened in the ‘pure’ light of day, contemptuously contaminating the atmosphere. Those committed indoor artistes were not taken in by the fancy label of plein airistes—they were unabashed polluters of our air and the real culprits of causing the global warming of our endangered planet. They even exported their evil abroad, the so-called “Hudson River School” in America, for example, avid followers of this misguided practice. Surely, we all are doomed to the inevitable curse of being made ‘toast’! So there! Hereby resolved! Fini!



Glimpses #1: Germany, Italy

October 2, 2016

Originally intended as a small book, “Glimpses: In which a Casual Traveler Ruminates on Passing Scenes—1989-2011”, I should like to share it with my readers in a more informal manner as a series of Blogs.

Ranging across some distance around the globe including Europe, Asia —and closer to “home”—Canada and Barbados, in addition to these ‘hosting’ countries, I’d like to acknowledge the following friends and hosts (as well as countless clerks, guides, porters, fellow travelers—in brief, all those unnamed but not forgotten people in Japan, the Czech Republic, Belgium and Austria whose helpful presence often eased the hassles of travel): Heinrich J., Konstanze and Christian Jarczyk, Jacky Sparkowsky and Jorg Iwan, Gaby and Norman Wittmer (Germany); Piero Augustus Breccia (Italy); Chen Chi and Zu Min, Jason and Crystal ((college students)), Xue Jianhua and Shao Li Ke (China); Ann Mamok, Rick and Jo Canning (England); Isabel and Bertrand Azema (France); Laslo Fesus (Hungary); Barbara and Ronnie Gill (Barbados).

A note to the reader: I have not included dates in separate entries since most of these recollections have been gleaned months — if not years — after their occurrence, not a few popping into my mind during sleepless nights long after I had returned home from my travels.

Included will be some of my paintings & sketches as well as some photographs taken by Cornelia Seckel.

Gardens as seen from the trains in Germany

Gardens as seen from the trains in Germany

Germany: On a train from Cologne to Berlin: small, enclosed garden plots, many with tiny buildings (for the storage of tools?), most with a sitting area containing a bench, followed by open fields and larger farms. Such plots also flashed by my window in China and Japan, each time before and after the environs of large towns or cities. Do city/town dwellers come out here to these tiny, well-tended gardens on evenings and weekends? Does man ever fully divorce himself from the land? Stop putting his hands into the soil? What happens when he does?

Italy: Rome: Waiting at a bus-stop. Having just missed a bus on our way to Piero’s studio (where we were staying), we put down our packages to await the next. How long? We notice a church across the street. Why not? We enter and are astounded to discover that it contains Bernini’s “Ecstasy of St.Theresa”. No signs to give a clue! How many other hidden treasures have I blithely passed by on my way elsewhere? (Note: Pier ((Piero)) Augusto Breccia is an artist I met in NYC and whom I wrote about in ART TIMES).

Zero to One Hundred

August 18, 2016

(Some notes on the Saugerties Artists Studio Tour 2016)



Raymond J. Steiner and a visitor during the Saugerties Artists Tour

Well, for those of you who already put up with my complaints (spoken or written. See, e.g. October 2013 Online “Peeks and Piques!) and frankly tired of it, here I go again. As I’ve done for about the last 10 years (+ or —), I — or more strictly, Cornelia — signed up again for the Annual Saugerties Artists’ Tour, allowing my inner sanctum to be once more invaded by visitors from near and afar over a weekend (this year, Sept 13, 14). An ‘isolatoe’, a hermit, a curmudgeon who cherishes solitude and isolation (why I live on a dead-end road in the middle of nowhere, for God’s sake!), I am never easy with more than one or two visitors at a time — and preferably none. Cornelia tells me there were about 50 people on each day…hence my ‘title’ above. A writer who enjoys daubing landscapes when the dreaded “block” halts my thought process (more and more often, I’m afraid), I am not entirely easy to ‘strut my stuff’ for the curious…my “oeuvre” therefore is merely a personal catalogue of my writer’s block “breakthroughs”, a ‘diary’ of sorts of where my head was at that time. As you’ve all heard ad nauseum, I’m a writer and NOT a painter… so I won’t bore you by droning on and on…again. Rather, I’d like to admit (full disclosure here) that almost every time I succumb to Cornelia’s urging (and threats of no dinner) I often am treated to some ‘upsides’ during the ordeal — collateral boons, you might say. For example, some old friend ‘pops up’, or a niece or nephew — in this case, a brilliant ex-student who himself became a teacher due (he says) to “my” ‘influence’. So, it wasn’t all downhill this time — in spite of the 3-day headache that followed the weekend (including right now as I write this thing). Anyway…a few of my ‘diary entries’ managed to sneak out of my sanctorum. I hope they bring the respite they gave me when I daubed them.

High Woods, NY, 8/17/2016.


MERY ROSADO— To know her was to love her

December 2, 2014

TO KNOW HER was to love her — but then, I might be a bit biased. Over the years, as we got to know each other better, she became my “Puerto Rican Princess” and I, her “”Pseudo Rican Boyfriend”. It was hard not to like Mery — she was open, amiable, accepting, always welcoming as you entered her “Mezzaluna”, displaying a joie d’vivre that wasMery awe mtg infectious and heart-warming. I don’t remember when it was I first came to her Cafe Bistro Latina, but once was enough to hook me for evermore. After a huge hug, she would always lead me to a corner, out-of-the-way table, where she knew I preferred to be alone, most usually with a book open before me alongside of one of her delicious cappuccinos. Since I rarely varied my routine, people used to whisper about the ‘snob’ off in the corner — enough times for Mery, always the joyful host, named my favorite drink the “snobbucino” — which ever after became a widely known ‘joke’. “Snobbucino?” she would call out from behind the counter and I would invariably answer “Yes, please” from my corner of the Cafe. It didn’t take long for others — mostly friends of mine — to come to Mery’s and ask for a “snobbucino”; “Ah,” she would say, “you know my Boyfriend?” Even more than our cordial friendship, however, to the community at large — especially the creatives (artists, musicians, stand-ups, etc.) — Mery was known as a force for good. Restaurateur, Inn-Keeper, Real Estate Rep — even an erstwhile Wall Street Trader — to many she was a steady friend of the arts, opening her Cafe to open-mic Musicians and performers on the weekends and her spacious walls to artists’ exhibitions from near and far (I attended more than a few Opening Receptions at Mery’s, including two of my own). Her many friends — and the surrounding communities of Saugerties and Woodstock (some even as far as NYC and Pennsylvania) — will sorely miss Mery; I know that I surely will. She was one of a kind and an all-too rare phenomenon in the population of our world.

Looking at Art: A Guide for the (Understandably) Perplexed Part I- Image-making

July 10, 2014

This essay first appeared in ART TIMES Spring 2014

Although some claim that more people in America visit art museums than they do sports events, the simple fact is that art—its making, its creators, its enjoyment—is an unexplored territory for a great part of our population. On the face of it, this can be a puzzling phenomenon to most art lovers, yet the reasons for it are manifold and complex. This article was an attempt to explore those reasons and, as much as possible, to de-mystify a subject that, perhaps more than most human experiences, is the least mystifying of all. Art—its making, its purposes, its import—are as much a part of mankind’s evolution on this earth as are breathing, eating and multiplying. If that first, pre-literate human who sketched a picture of an animal on a cave wall could accomplish such a thing, then surely any present-day human can come to terms with its making—from the drawing of the simplest stick figure by a child to the very latest “work of art” made today. What that caveman was doing and why he was doing it, differs from today’s artmakers only in the degree of technology and intellectual complexity available to them both. The act of making an image is the same—and belongs as much to us as it does to our ancestors, as much to the child as to the adult, as much to the artist as to the non-artist, as much to the ardent artlover as to that person as yet uninitiated in its delights.

Well…if you’ve gotten this far then you’ve already taken the hardest step you’re going to have to make. As with most things in life—whether it’s mountain-climbing, skiing, sailing, gardening, or what have you—the desire to do a thing is always the first hurdle you have to leap. If you want to do something, well, believe it, you’re already more than half-way there. That mini-step was reading this article; that you got this far means you have a sincere desire to know more. Hopefully, by the time you finish reading this article, you will not be willing to say, “I am not interested in—or like—or understand—art.” Get ready for one of the easiest ways to enrich your life!

Like artists, and artwriters, places to exhibit artwork also come in many varieties. Art can be viewed at art museums, galleries, art associations, art schools and studios; it can also be found hanging in restaurants, banks, art fairs, at church socials, hospitals or even at flea markets and garage sales. At most of these places, you will find that it is for sale. Of course, you can find it in people’s homes—but more often than not it is part of a private “collection” and not for sale.

I put collection in quotes in the last line, since, in the artworld, the term most often means a body of work collected by an organization, royal family, person or persons who have since made it available to the public, either in a public or privately owned museum. Thus, the “Havermeyer Collection” may be found as part of the holdings of the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City, the “Clark Collection” in the Sterling and Francine Clark Institute in Williamstown, Massachusetts, and so forth. Usually—but not always—these official collections center on a particular artist, medium, period, country or “school” such as, respectively for example, the Picasso Collection, The Vassar College print collection, works of the Italian Renaissance, the Rockefeller African Art collection, or the Impressionists. Conversely, a private home “collection” usually reflects the owners taste(s) and may contain a mixture of all of the above. In any event, whatever the place and whether for sale or not, all of this art is meant to be seen. And either by special invitation or regular visiting hours, you will find that, if you wish, you are welcome to come and look.

Because art museums often seem to be the most intimidating to many, we’ll begin with them. In the scheme of things, and at least as far as this mini-history of image-making goes, museums are relative newcomers. It was not until early in the 18th century in Europe that the first public art museum was built. Previous to that time, only the very wealthy—royal families and the like—collected art and it was hung in their palaces, castles and royal halls for their private enjoyment. If you also were part of that “in” crowd—a local aristocrat or visiting royalty, for instance—you might get to see these collections, but for the large mass of peasantry, such artwork did not even exist—other than what they might see in a church. Most, however—as noted before—saw such art—paintings, stained glass windows, statues—not as “art” but as “messages” from God. In fact, even the church building itself—also now seen as “architectural art”—was viewed in religious rather than “aesthetic” terms. Further, the craftsmen who made these artifacts were themselves not considered as “artists” —most of their names are lost to history—hence, there was no such concept as their making “art”. As with artwriting, the idea of recognizing such “craftsmen” as “artists”, did not fully occur until the Renaissance. For centuries—and even up until the Middle Ages—“artists” were classed along with masons, carpenters, and butchers—the ancient Greeks called them banausos—“artisans”.

The average peon—if he even had a wall to hang it on—might display some of his own handiwork, an example of what we would now call “folk” art. (Incidentally, there are now folk art collections, folk art museums and even folk art galleries where such items are on view and/or sale. Merchants have thought of everything.) Other than that, unless you were an artist yourself or worked at some art guild or master’s workshop, you didn’t have the time, inclination or money to pursue such things as art or its viewing.

At any rate, revolutions, upheavals, and the like were making the average person aware of the things he’d been missing, among them the storehouses of treasures that the nobility had amassed. It would not take long for public museums to pop up all over Europe—and elsewhere. What had previously been the King’s “collection” became the “nation’s” collection, and everyone could now visit and see and enjoy what was once the private purview of the powerful and wealthy. Today, there are museums spread throughout the world, each displaying their treasures for the public. Remember: art IS NO LONGER meant to be a special plaything of the elite, the wealthy, the intellegentsia or the snob. it was and always will be for you. Today, you might still not have the inclination (hopefully, that will change after you get through this book), but time or money is no longer a valid excuse to keep art out of your life.

Museums can be repositories of a wide variety of art, both ancient and modern, or restrict themselves exclusively to one type, or school, or period, or country, or whatever—as noted above when we discussed collections. The Salvador Dali Museum in St. Petersburg, Florida, for example, features the work of Dali, while the Whitney Museum of American Art in New York City, confines itself to showing the work only of American artists.

Because museums tend to house a nation’s priceless treasures and serve as showplaces for both native and foreign visitors, the buildings that serve as their “homes” tend to be large, showy and intimidating. Places such as the Louvre in Paris, France, for instance, were, in fact, once palaces. For the average person, therefore, there can often be a doubt as to whether just anyone can “drop in” to these imposing buildings. The answer, of course, is “Yes”—they are, after all, public buildings. But, still…

If you were raised like me, you were not brought up to visit museums on either a regular or even sporadic basis. I, for example, did not set foot inside an art museum until I was well into my thirties. For whatever reason, and I tend to think it’s because my family’s roots were the peasantry of Europe, “art” just wasn’t for us. We were practical, down-to-earth people, concerned with making a living and getting along. Sure, we had pictures on the walls—usually cut out from magazines or calendars—and maybe even some of our own “folk art,” but this was merely for decoration. To go and “study” a picture—to make a specific trip to a museum just to “look”—well, that just didn’t happen in my family. Like courthouses and hospitals—other imposing buildings—museums were just one more place to avoid if you could help it.

For a time there, public education used to add trips to museums as a regular practice—and a great many people had the process of looking at art and artifacts de-mystified. Back in my day, such outings were unheard of; today, a great many schools have stopped the practice due to cut-backs in aid. This is truly a great misfortune since the cycle of ignorance is once more put into motion. Those treasures are there for our enjoyment, but if you don’t know of their availability they might just as well be back in the hands of kings and tsars and caesars.

If you were raised like me, then you’ll just have to do the de-mystifying yourself. The first step is to understand that they are public, that is places for you and me to visit. And, like any public place, there are days and hours for visitation. Any local paper can advise you and if they don’t list the times, a telephone book will give the telephone number and, in most cases, even the specific number to call for the times. These days, by looking up and checking out which museums offer information online, you can even take a “virtual” tour of a museum in the comfort of your own home — this eliminates the intimidation factor and it’s an easy way to see what’s in store for you when you finally go for an actual visit.

Once you’ve established when and where you going, the next thing to determine is whether or not there is a fee involved. Again, there are variations. Some museums are free; some ask for a donation; some have a set fee. These things are determined by the method in which the museum is funded and, for now, need not concern us here. You can save this for later when you’ve become an expert museum-goer and are considering a place on the board of directors. For now, we’ll just stick with how much, if anything, it is going to cost you to get in. Usually these things are posted somewhere near the door and, if you’ve done your homework, you have already found out by looking it up or calling ahead. Remember: asking questions is just fine and the reason why most museums have “Information” desks situated near the front door.

I have made the assumption that the museum or museums you have chosen to visit are close to you and that you have not decided to make some extended trip for your first time out. Eventually, however, you will tend to become more selective. You will soon discover that not all museums are equal. As noted above, they house different collections and you will soon tend to become selective. Most likely you will first visit those museums that show things you are interested in. That might even be electric trains, fire engines or dolls. But, since art is the topic here, we are trying to get you to visit art museums. So, you might want to begin with folk art or American Indian art or even a craft museum. (A look at any one of a great many museum guides will show you just how wide a range there are out there.) Whichever you choose, be prepared to spend the good part of a day.

And, remember, you’ve come to look. No one has to tell you how to do that. One of the things I find most annoying when I drop into a museum is to see people standing in front of pictures with earphones stuck on their head. You don’t look through your ears—you look through youreyes. And unless you’re well on your way in art appreciation and are doing some kind of research paper or something, don’t let anyone tell you what to see; just look and see what the picture tells you. If the artist wanted you to hear what he had to say, he would have written a poem or a novel or an essay. He wanted you to see—so just look and tune out any commentary that might be going on around you.

This admonition is no personal whim of mine—I don’t have anything against earphones or recorders or anything like that. But I remember hearing something that will clearly illustrate my concern. Someone once said, “I can teach you how to make gold—the ingredients are inexpensive and the recipe simple. Just fill an ordinary pot with water and stir with a wooden spoon. You must only do one thing while stirring: do not think of ‘hippopotamus’! In a very short time, you will have gold in your pot.”

That’s it. Now just go and try to do it. All the while you are thinking “I will not think of ‘hippopotamus” you are, of course, thinking of it. So, you can never make gold out of water. The point is, that the power of suggestion is so strong and so insidious that we are mostly unaware of its influence. If, for example, while you are standing and looking at a painting by Corot, someone says in your ear, “Notice the spot of red that the artist adds to his painting. So often does he do this, that the stroke of red has become one of his famous hallmarks. etc., etc. etc.” (I did hear this on the earphones at one museum). Well, from now on, you’ll never be able not to see that red blob of paint. How much more exciting might it have been if you had discovered that recurring swab of red and read about it later? That discovery, by the way, is precisely why so many people have learned the excitement and pleasure of looking at art. Believe me, there are still things to be discovered! By now, so many are looking for that red spot that they are overlooking other things that the artist has put there. Seek and ye shall find! (Listen and you’ll only find what someone else has already found!)

After museums, perhaps “posh” art galleries can also be intimidating to the newcomer on the artscene. Ought you avoid them? Absolutely not! Not only are they also “public” places, but they are also in the business of promoting and selling art—and this may be the very reason why, to some, they are intimidating. Many such galleries, in fact, cannot be simply entered by walking in off the street but have a “buzzer” or “bell” that one must press in order to be admitted. True, but still, that does not mean that you cannot step up, press the button, and walk in— even if you do not intend to purchase a work of art. That little “announcement” of you standing at the door is simply to alert those inside—who are responsible for items that can be worth thousands of dollars apiece— that you are coming in. They may not be overjoyed that you are just “window shopping”—after all, being “posh”, they are often located in prime locations and have exorbitant rents to meet—but, usually, you will find them courteous, friendly and—since this is what you’re there for—very informative about the art and the artists they represent. So, overcome your timidity and take this excellent opportunity to further expand your knowledge—and enjoyment—of art.

By far, the least off-putting of venues where the perplexed can make initial forays into the artworld without fear of being “exposed” as a “newby” would be to drop into an art fair (a common summer event in most communities), a street exhibition (such as, for example, the annual Washington Square Outside Art Exhibit), or an announced artist reception at some gallery or arts organization where, in all probability you’ll meet a few “newbys” just like yourself.

So, go out and get your feet wet—look, ask questions, walk away if you don’t like it but, above all, ENJOY what you like!


• Art Is One Of Life’s Few, Pure, No-Strings-Attached Gifts To Us—

• We Ought Not Abuse Or Ignore It.

• Art Can Be Silly, Frivolous, Annoying, But Also Interesting, Exciting, Even Spiritual.

• Art Can Depress Us Or Anger Us.

• Art Can Heighten Our Sensibilities.

• Art Can Civilize Us.

• Art Can Be Used As A Release, As Therapy, As A Political Forum, Or At Its Best, As A Source Of Enlightenment And Enrichment.

• Whatever Art Is Or Does, Make It Your Own!


This is Part 1 in a series of 4 parts:
Image Making
Art Writing
Exhibition Places