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I first went to the Museum of Modern Art in New York when I was in eighth grade. I took the Public Service bus into Manhattan and the subway down to Columbus Circle, and then on foot to 57th Street. Inside the museum were famous paintings I had only seen as reproductions in books and magazine articles. There, in person, was Van Gogh’s Starry Night and Picasso’s Guernica, the latter an astonishing 25 feet wide along its own wall. I was too young to understand the tragedy behind that work, but old enough to be blown away by the size and imagery. 

Growing up in New Jersey, just on the other side of the George Washington Bridge, I spent as much time as I could in the city, visiting the various museums, theaters and concert halls, to say nothing of the book stores. New Jersey seemed so banal and flavorless, and New York seemed like the center of the universe. I cannot tell the number of times I went to the American Museum of Natural History, which was like a second home to me, or the Hayden Planetarium. And MoMA was the epicenter of art. I came to know every painting and sculpture in the place, and considered it, if not holy, then whatever the secular equivalent is. 

And it is where I first saw my first live Pollock. Jackson Pollock was everywhere in those days, as an escutcheon for Modern Art, or as a whipping boy for those who felt it was all a huge scam. Life magazine had dubbed him in 1949 as possibly “America’s Greatest Living Painter,” while in 1959, a British newspaper wrote, “This is not art — it’s a joke in bad taste.” Even former New Yorker art critic Robert Coates once called his work “mere unorganized explosions of random energy, and therefore meaningless.”

“Number 1, 1950 (Lavender Mist)” National Gallery, D.C. 

The paintings were made by pouring and dripping and flinging paint on a canvas on the floor of his studio, like random scribbles. And to his detractors, that is all it was: scribbles. Many a puzzled civilian looked and complained, “My kid could do that.” 

Author Helen Harrison wrote a book and put it in a box — The Jackson Pollock Box (available from Amazon for $29.95) — that includes canvas and several squirt bottles of paint, so you can make your own drip paintings. “People thought it was arbitrary, that anyone can fling paint around,” Harrison said. “Well, that’s true. Anyone can fling paint around, and this was my point. You can do that, but you don’t necessarily come up with anything.” Pollock did.

“Number 17A 1948” Private collection

To this day — with Pollock now largely canonized in the art world, and even Modern Art in general having won the battle — he splits his viewership into those who love the work and those who still consider it a fraud committed on a gullible public. 

I am obviously in the first cohort. His art speaks to me more than most post-War art (partly because of my age — as a Boomer, I grew up during a time Modern Art was still hotly debated, and to be courant, required the taking of sides), but I also think Pollock has not been helped by his admirers, who have published a grand catalog of piffle about the work, using it to justify theories that are as empty as their prose is turgid. 

Number 7A 1948” Private collection

The work stands on its own. It has no need of theory propping it up. If you remove the scaffolding, you can see the art. Words only get in the way. 

The two most guilty culprits were the Bergs, the two critics writing in the middle of the last century who told us what art was supposed to be. One, Harold Rosenberg gave us the idea of Action Painting, that is, that the object on the wall was only the record of the actual art, which was its making through performance. According to Rosenberg the canvas was “an arena in which to act.” The other, Clement Greenberg, told us that Modern Art was supposed to be flat. It should not attempt to trivialize itself with attempting illusionary depth. Paint on surface is what it was all about. “Flatness, two-dimensionality, was the only condition painting shared with no other art, and so Modernist painting oriented itself to flatness as it did to nothing else.”

“Silver Over Black White Yellow and Red” Musee National d’Art Moderne, Paris

All this wasn’t about the art; it was ideas about the art. It was interpretation. And interpretation takes us away from the art, away from the visual world and into the verbal world. Ideas about the thing, not the thing itself. 

I learned very early that more important than speaking was looking. As Yogi Berra said, “You can observe a lot just by looking.” Most of us see with our brains and not with our eyes. We are shown a picture and immediately name what we see. “That’s a picture of a house,” we say, or “That’s my brother Barney the day he joined the Army.” Our reflex is to repackage what we see as what we can name. And barring that, we use words to explain why what we see matters, or why it doesn’t, or how something reinforces or questions our assumptions. All words. 

I was taught by a wise professor to look first, describe what I see, and pay attention to everything in a frame. Light, shadow; line, color; aspect ratio and physical size of the work; dynamic range and even pigment type. There is a lot to be seen. It’s why it was painted and not written down. After you have looked and seen (two different things), then you can discuss the subject matter, and attempt to make out why the artist made this particular work. But look first, and look carefully. 

“Mural on Indian Red Ground” Tehran Museum of Contemporary Art

With Pollock, this is especially important, since there is no easy “subject.” There is paint. 

But there is a whole lot going on with the paint, and not just that the artist has sprayed paint around like a lawn sprinkler. In fact, there is little that is random about the spatter. “I can control the flow of paint,” he said.  “There is no accident.”

And to call them drips is not to do them justice. He had a whole repertoire of drips. Some were spread out like ink lines, others were a kind of polka-dot splat. Sometimes the paint would puddle in the middle; sometimes when the puddle began drying, he would yank back its skin as if he were picking a scab. It left a torn, ridged surface. 

It is one of the revelations of the show to see just how many different things Pollock found to do with his basic drip. In some paintings, the paint is thick on the canvas; in others, he dripped thin paint on unprimed canvas, staining them rather than painting them. The line would bleed, like a fountain pen on porous paper.

Pollock normally painted with his canvas on the floor. He stood over it, half crouched, with a can of commercial house paint in one hand and a stick or crusty dried brush in the other, dipping it into the can and swirling the brush over the canvas, about 6 inches above the surface. Back and forth he would move, like a caged animal, repeating his arm motions, stepping a half-jig step to the left and repeating, over and over. A change of color or a new kind of wrist-flick would make a different kind of drip. The paintings built up slowly, so that the first drips often were hidden by the later ones. 

For instance, if you are careless, you may not notice that most Pollock drip paintings are not dribbles from edge to edge or top to bottom. The paint makes a shape in the middle of the canvas. And usually, that shape either settles toward the bottom of the canvas, or rises to the top. The first seems weightier, the second more buoyant.

“Number 1A 1948” MoMA

The randomness of the scatter is never completely random. Take his Number 1A from 1948, which is 8 feet, 8 inches side to side and 5.6 feet high. It is an early drip painting and the placing of the bulk of drip is not random, but makes a shape of its own in the center of the canvas, with a margin around the edge. It is placed. If it were not, you could hang it on the wall upside down and it would make no difference. But notice how different it looks that way.

And for that central shape of paint pother, the detail is scrunched in the middle, with a wedge taken out of the top. 

It is not random. This is true of most of his best-known drip paintings, including the one I first saw at MoMA, One, Number 31.

“One: Number 31 1950” MoMA

The second thing you can notice is that the paintings are not flat, but deeply illusionistic. They have depth, and you look into them like a tangled skein of yard in a basket. 

Pollock went out of his way to create that depth. An early image of the painting, after the first few drippings of black paint, show us the base coat, as it were

First layer, “Autumn Rhythm”

He then added white, and other colors, partially obscuring the base black lines, but then he added a second coat of black lines on top, partially covering the colors underneath, so that it is never simply each new color blocking the earlier, but rather a welter of lines and puddle. 

“Autumn Rhythm (Number 30)” Metropolitan Museum of Art

You look into them as if they might be a microphotograph of neurons in the brain. 

Detail “Autumn Rhythm”

The major problem that Pollock faced, and never completely resolved, is: Where to go to next. His peak drip painting period lasted perhaps three years, but at some point, continuing means just repeating himself. 

“Number 32 1950” Kunstsammlung Nordrhein-Westfalen, Germany

One: Number 31 and Autumn Rhythm were made from the same huge bolt of canvas. Each about 8 feet tall and 17 feet across. A third painting, in black, Number 32, filled out a kind of trilogy of giant paintings. 

“Blue Poles: Number 11 1952” National Gallery of Australia

One of his last great drip paintings, from 1952, was Blue Poles, where he tried to solve the issue of how to organize the drips by imposing eight large dark slanted lines across the 16-foot canvas. 

I had longed to see the painting in person, but it had been sold in 1973 to the National Gallery of Australia and shipped off to Canberra. But in 1998, I got to visit the Pollock retrospective at MoMA, where more than a hundred Pollocks were on view, with Blue Poles holding the place of honor in the final gallery.

There wasn’t a breakthrough after the breakthrough. Pollock never discovered where to go next. There are inkings, so to speak, when he began to return to the themes of his earlier paintings, bits of mythology and Jungian psychology. 

“The Deep” and “Easter and the Totem” 

But seeing the life’s work spread out at MoMA, proved that the drip paintings were the reason for his fame, that before them and following were only lesser works. 

Pollock always seemed like a once-lost soul trying his damnedest to be a great artist, but with very little of what is traditionally called talent. His early paintings are hardly more accomplished than those of a moderately talented high school student. They mimic, first, his mentor, Thomas Hart Benton, with bucolic agrarian landscapes, then they mimic the harder-edged style of the Mexican muralists, especially the more surreal Siqueiros. But his mimickry was never very good. 

“She-Wolf” 1943 MoMA

In the early 1940s, his paintings became thicker with paint and took on as subject matter a kind of Jungian symbolism, with crusty paintings titled Moon Woman, Guardians of the Secret and She-Wolf. They were the stuff of deeply felt, perhaps, but clumsy efforts at best, lumpy with thickly applied gobs of paint. 

Then, in the late 1940s, he happened upon the idea of dripping paint directly on canvas, allowing the spillage to form images. It was as if Pollock discovered himself. What had been clumsy became elegant. What had been derivative became authentic. He had found his “adequate means of expression.” 

“Every age finds its own technique,” Pollock said.

Even now, Pollock the myth is better known than his paintings. Yes, the paintings are known, but they are recognized rather than seen. Seeing takes effort. But as a well-told story, he filled a cultural role in the 1950s, when rebellious artists, swimming in testosterone, were having their moment. 

As critic Luis Camnitzer wrote in ArtNexus magazine, he fulfilled  “two myths that still seem to have a certain (at least nostalgic) attraction. One is that of the male artist, just as he was conceived in the United States, with motorcycles, women and alcohol. The other is that of the ingenious inventor who creates things from scratch and with minimal resources. … The character conjured up by all this is the product of a strange  blend of Van Gogh, Thomas Alva Edison, and James Dean.” 

So, when a drunk Pollock died in 1956, slamming his convertible and two young women into a tree, it immediately became the story that took over in the public consciousness. 

But it is the large canvasses for which he should be remembered. You can look at them and recognize their visual depth, the motion and movement in the spirals of enamel and pools of paint. Because they are so large, you stand close enough, they become a horizon-to-horizon event, and the paint has its own message — a busy energetic universe of pigment, and a modern version of the Sublime. You don’t need to make up stories; just look and absorb. 

Click on any image to enlarge

As I get older and nearing the end, or at least close enough to see it ahead of me, instead of quiet retirement, I feel a kind of frenzy to produce. To make stuff. And so, I keep writing for my blog, and the longer I’m doing it, the more complex each entry gets. But it isn’t only the writing, I also feel driven to see — to make images, to record what around me looks interesting, makes patterns, says something about my innards. It is pure compulsion and I don’t understand it myself. 

All of which is to introduce a sequence of photographs I’ve made over the past two or three days. I spend at least a portion of most days sitting on the patio in the back yard, trying to soak up every impression I can. Bird calls, clouds, tree leaves shimmering, the distant sound of passing jets or trucks on the highway. I try to soak it all in. I try to be present, to be aware of the world. 

I don’t usually try to record the things I see and hear, but just to notice, to pay attention. But a couple of days ago, I brought my camera out to the patio with me, and began recording things I found interesting, including such dull stuff as pattens in the patio concrete, leaves, gathering storm clouds. I winnowed them down to a group that I thought made sense in a sequence, as if they were frames in a story. I may rearrange them yet again, but here is the set as it stands now. 

I do these things just for myself, but having done it, it seems to want to find an audience, and so, I’m offering it up. I don’t think these are worth a whole lot. Some are interesting enough as single shots, but really, it is just the playing out of my need to make stuff. Make make make. 

BOUNDED IN A NUTSHELL 

Cloud collage

Crossed trees

Concrete circle

Cloud

Hose

Split circle

Peeking sun

Star flowers

Threatening cloud

Zen circle

Click on any image to enlarge

Those of us who pay attention to the various arts usually have certain works or artists that appeal to us more than others, that grok on the particular wavelength we resonate to. 

For me, when it comes to music, it is the work of Franz Josef Haydn. I enjoy pretty much all of classical music, from Josquin to Golijov, depending on my mood. But I know I can always sit back and enjoy a Haydn quartet or symphony. His music is endlessly surprising and inventive, always seems to have a point, and is both witty and playful, but can also be deeply expressive and emotional. 

When I worked in Phoenix, my commute to the office was about 20 minutes long, which was just about the perfect length to take on one of his symphonies. One on the way to work, and another on the way home. And when I got through all 104 of them, I started again back with the first. I reckon I tore through all of them at least five times on that drive. Haydn wrote tons of music, and I’ve listened to tons, starting with an anonymous 78 rpm recording of his Symphony No. 99 when I was in high school. 

Haydn’s music isn’t just tunes. It is a narrative. The music of the Classical era has a clear musical“story” laid out in each composition, that I find compelling. And Haydn does this better than anyone. 

Haydn and Mozart

We usually say that Haydn and Mozart wrote music in the Classical style. But that’s not really quite right. It wasn’t a style they adopted, but one they invented. Mozart and Haydn created the Classical style. 

What we call, in the larger term classical music is habitually divided up into historical periods: Baroque; Classical; Romantic; Post-Romantic; Modern; etc. It’s all classical music, of course, but within the time frame from roughly 1750 to about 1825, is the subset we give the Capital “C” Classical name. And the most prominent names from that subset are Haydn and Mozart. (And later, Beethoven and Schubert, but they were both already heading toward the new age of Romanticism). 

Baroque music reached its peak of Baroque-osity with Johann Sebastian Bach, whose music is contrapuntally so elaborate that it takes spreadsheet to parse it. By the time he died in 1750, his music was out of date and tastes had begun to look for something simpler, more homophonic, and with tunes you might hum or whistle. Bach’s sons, famous composers in their own time, all wrote in this newer, lighter popular style. Other famous composers of the mid- and late 18th century also adopted this simplified orchestral style, including the Mannheim School, and the whole Stamitz family. (I am simplifying, myself, here, but overall, this is the direction). 

In Germany, this style was called Empfindsamkeit, or the “sentimental style,” and sought to express “true and natural feelings.” And early in their careers, both Mozart and Haydn composed in this style. But each left it behind soon enough. Their minds vibrated to more complex textures. 

Each built increasingly complex and sophisticated edifices on the simple tune-and-accompaniment idea, with richer harmonies, fugal writing, longer works of interconnected ideas. When Emperor Joseph II  complained to Mozart that his music had “zu viele Noten”— “too many notes” — this is what he was referring to. Haydn got there first, as he was the elder, found new ways to expand the structure of the music, indeed to make the very structure part of its expressivity. You don’t just listen to tunes, but follow how they change over the course of a movement, and those developments are what the music is “about.” 

The joy of listening to Haydn’s music is following his telling of the “story.” I don’t mean story in the sense of fiction, but rather how a group of musical ideas transform through the course of a movement: They start in one place and go somewhere else. If you are used to letting music wash over you like a warm bath, you won’t gather the primary gifts Franz Josef is offering. 

This kind of storytelling can be spotted easily in something like Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, which begins in an angry, agitated C-minor and ends, three movements later, in a triumphant C-major, all trumpets and glory. Classical music isn’t a static bath of pretty sounds, but is always going somewhere. Listening to it requires attentiveness. You need to follow the story.

This directionality is the heart of sonata form, that armature upon which so much of classical music, both small “c” and capital “C,” is built. For Haydn, and for Mozart, the basic metaphor is one of establishing order (the exposition of the basic tunes), the interruption by chaos (the development section, where the tunes go through key changes, breaking in to pieces, and loss of identity), and finally, the re-establishment of order (the recapitulation, which retells the original tunes in the original key). Order, whether artistic, philosophical, political, religious, cultural, is the key question dominating the 18th century. You find it everywhere. 

The sonata form has many parents, but the main one I want to mention here is the two-part song form, simply speaking, a first part with the tunes, which is repeated, then the second part which complicates what we’ve heard in the first part. The second part is usually repeated, also. The 555 keyboard sonatas of Domenico Scarlatti all follow this pattern. He liked to wander off into strange dissonances and foreign keys, eventually to hit hard at some point on the original key. Musicologist Ralph Kirkpatrick named this point the “crux.” It could come anywhere in the piece, but when it hit, you knew you were back in comfortable territory. I could happen as late as the final chords, or halfway through the second half. 

Haydn took this common two-part form and turned it into a three-part form, regularized it, and then, through the rest of his career, played with the form, always surprising his attentive listener by messing with expectations. 

In later music, sonata form became a pat formula, but for Haydn, it was something to play with, to alter and surprise with. Sometimes he started a “false recap” only to dive back into the chaos; sometimes he used only one theme instead of the usual two or three; sometimes he played them back in the wrong order. Constantly pulling the rug out. If you know the outline, you enjoy being pleasantly fooled. 

But it wasn’t only sonata form. Haydn’s century was obsessed with order. This need to return to the status quo ante underlies most Classical music forms. Second movements are often in theme and variations, in which a tune is varied several times, usually with a climax in a minor key, followed by something like a return to the original, usually amplified by bigger orchestration. Third movements are minuets and trios, where a dance tune is followed by a contrasting trio section and then a return to the minuet. Finales are often in sonata form, but often in rondo form, where a tune is played, a second tune follows and then the first tune returns, a third tune follows and the original tune is repeated. It’s a whole lot of returning tunes, a whole lot of re-establishing the order. 

Mozart picked up the form from Haydn, and used it rather more as a mold for filling with memorable tunes. He was less concerned with surprising his listeners and more with pleasing them. The grammar is similar, the semantics quite different. 

It used to be a joke: How can you tell Haydn from Mozart, since their music appeared to use the same style. One of my professors had an answer: “If you can remember the tunes when it is over, it was Mozart.” But really, that is calumny, because Haydn could write memorable themes, when it suited his purposes, and Mozart could disassemble his expositions with the best of them. 

There are other differences. Mozart was the greatest ever at blending woodwinds into a beautiful harmonious whole, while Haydn tended to keep is winds distinct and separate. Mozart wrote longer-lined, almost vocal, singable melodies while Haydn often chose shorter, punchier rhythmic or pitch patterns that lent themselves to constant transformation. 

Another difference between the two: Haydn is his most characteristic writing for groups of instruments or voices; Mozart his most characteristic writing for one voice against an accompaniment. Hence Mozart’s concertos were revolutionary and his operas the best, while Haydn’s best are his symphonies and string quartets. His concertos — outside of a famous trumpet concerto and a couple for cello — are mostly forgotten. Haydn’s operas are full of good arias, but he lacked the theatrical genius of the younger man. His libretti were never as good as his music. 

Haydn became a musical revolutionary by unusual means. His boss provided an orchestra and moved him out of the city into the boondocks and then asked him to provide almost nightly entertainment. Left to his own devices in the provincial estate of Esterhazy, Haydn wrote symphonies, divertimenti, trios, ballets and operas. He also devised puppet shows, and served as impresario to various traveling theater groups putting on plays. 

Esterhazy Palace, Fertöd, Hungary

The estate was the summer home of Count Nikolaus Esterhazy, 65 miles from Vienna and in what is now Hungary. Vienna was where art and society were; Esterhazy is where Haydn was. During those years, he had an audience in the Count’s court well practiced in following his music, and the particular ways he used structural surprises to keep that audience amused. All his symphonies had jokes in them, or at least wit — those left turns to expectation that kept his listeners attentive. 

He later wrote, “I was set apart from the world … and so I had to become original.” He was lucky his boss was not only a music lover, but knowledgable and receptive. Over the nearly 40 seasons he spent with the Esterhazy family, he had an appreciative audience, who the composer trained to follow his music and be able to recognize the surprises Haydn was building in to his musical structures. 

Haydnsaal, Esterhazy

When Nikolaus died, his successor kept Haydn on salary, but was less interested in the arts and music, which freed the composer up to travel, publish his works, and become, essentially, the most famous musician in Europe. He wrote at least 106 symphonies (104 of them numbered); close to 80 string quartets (exact count is squishy since publishers would sometimes sell scores under Haydn’s name written by lesser composers); some 40 piano trios; about 60 piano sonatas (the numbering varies); two of the most popular oratorios in the repertoire (The Creation and The Seasons); a dozen masses; 13 operas; close to a thousand songs and lieder; and even 32 pieces for mechanical clock. The boy was kept busy. 

When he died, in 1809 at the age of 77, he was the most famous composer in Europe (Beethoven was just getting started and considered perhaps a touch too wild and hairy; his Fifth Symphony premiered just month’s before Haydn’s death). Haydn’s reputation since then has had its ups and downs. The 19th century generally put him in powdered wigs and knee britches and saw him as old fashioned and tame. They called him “Papa” Haydn and admitted he was father of the symphony, but never seemed to notice how revolutionary his music had been. 

That dusty and toothless version continued into the 20th century, but by halfway through those years, some conductors took especially to Haydn’s symphonies. There are mid-century recordings that are vigorous and beautifully performed, but Haydn remained a concert opener, leaving the bulk of the concert to more serious concertos by Rachmaninov and roof-raising symphonies by Brahms. 

Haydn with and without his wig

More recently, the historical performance mafia have reshaped the attitude toward Papa Haydn, with smaller orchestras, faster tempos, scratchier fiddle tones, and dogmatic ideas. Haydn, himself, is largely left out of the equation. He always asked for larger orchestras and better string playing. His Creation was first performed with an orchestra of over 100 musicians. In England, his symphonies usually had between 80 and 100 players. The tiny orchestra was a constraint he suffered with at Esterhazy, not his ideal performance style. So, when you hear some trendy conductor claim he is hewing closer to Haydn’s intentions with eight fiddles and a single cello, know that he is blowing smoke. 

Because I love Haydn’s music so much, I have listened to recordings of it made as far back as the 1930 and continuing to the newest releases, and have a wider background in it than most classical music fans. And so, I feel qualified to make certain recommendations. 

The first complete set of Haydn symphonies was made in the 1970s by conductor Antal Dorati and the Philharmonia Hungarica, an emigre band of musicians fleeing Communist oppression. I have recently relistened to them, and while they were good for their time — and the only option for years — they are a little run-of-the-mill nowadays, and sound to me like they were rehearsed and recorded quickly to fill out a project. They are not bad, but they certainly don’t capture the wit and effervescence of the scores. And the sound engineering isn’t up to today’s best standard. Still, if you have only this set, you would be fine. 

The best current choice is Adam Fischer and the Austro-Hungarian Haydn Orchestra, recorded individually in the 1990s, and released as a complete set in 2002. It sounds better than the Dorati version, and Fischer has a surer grasp of the wit. There is a craft to telling jokes. Too flat and they aren’t jokes, but turn them into slapstick, and they are just embarrassing. Fischer lets you know he knows, and trusts his listeners that they know, too. There are better performances of some of these works individually, but as a set, it hasn’t been beat. 

A more recent set by Dennis Russell Davies with the Stuttgarter Kammerorchester is a non-starter. Flat, dull, and seemingly unaware that there are any jokes to be had, it came and went in 2010. Just the notes, ma’am. Worse, he uses harpsichord accompaniment with all of them, which is ugly and intrusive. I gave away my set. I already had a doorstop. 

Earlier this year, a compilation of all the releases by Thomas Fey and the Heidelberger Sinphoniker was released. This was a stunner. Unfortunately, Fey died before he could finish the set, and the remainder of the symphonies were conducted by Johannes Klumpp in the same spirit as Fey. Most of the major symphonies are with Fey, so the loss is minimal. These have all the vigor and energy one expects from the historical practice people, but with modern instruments, and a sense of musicality often missing from that benighted group. Yes, Fey understands the jokes. 

What too many recent recordings of Haydn and Mozart lack is a sense of phrasing, the long line. In their quest for just the notes ma’am, they are like actors who play Shakespeare with no expression, no emphases, no pausing for breath, or speeding up for excitement, as if the words on the page need no interpretation. All pump-pump-pump, hit the barlines heavy and meaning be damned. Which is why so many older recordings seem so much more humane, warm, real. 

Certainly the most humane, warmest, most musical and spirit-enlivening Haydn came with Thomas Beecham and the Royal Philharmonic in the 1950s. He only recorded the final 12 symphonies, but they are utter and complete delight. This is what Haydn should be. He doesn’t take first-movement repeats, but that is the only complaint that could be lodged. If you only have one set of Haydn symphonies, it should be Beecham’s London Symphonies. 

The Londons have been recorded more than any others. There’s the Surprise Symphony, the Clock Symphony, the Drumroll Symphony, but even those without familiar nicknames are brilliant. The first, Symphony No. 93, has the greatest fart joke. No. 98 has a surprise piano solo just before the final chords. If you want something in more modern sound and in stereo, you can always get the set with Eugen Jochum and the London Philharmonic. They are the “reference set” for most critics. George Szell also recorded the first six London Symphonies. I don’t know why he never got to finish the rest, but the precision and flair he brought to them is exceptional; and the absolute best fart in No. 93. And prize for the most bonkers recording of the “Military” symphony goes to Hermann Scherchen and the Vienna State Opera Orchestra. Scherchen was just nuts, but fun. 

The other set of Haydn symphonies are those he wrote for Paris, Nos. 82-87, including The Bear and The Hen. They were the first group written for performance outside his Esterhazy audience, and were a big hit when first performed in 1786. When the historical practice people talk about playing Haydn with 20 musicians, it should be recalled that the Paris symphonies had 40 violins alone, and 10 double basses. 

There is general consensus that the Paris Symphonies to hear are those recorded by Leonard Bernstein and the New York Philharmonic. They buzz with wit and excitement. A surprising second place goes to Nikolaus Harnoncourt and the Concentus Musicus Wien. Harnoncourt was known for doing weird things, but not so here. Just brilliant playing, almost as much fun as Bernstein, and that’s saying something. 

But Haydn isn’t only symphonies. He, for all practical purposes, invented the string quartet. When he started, the quartet was a violin soloist accompanied by three “helpers.” Not really what the quartet became. Haydn turned them into four equals (or mostly equals — first violin is prima inter pares) having a music conversation. Everyone gets his moments. But finding recordings of the whole corpus is difficult. There are a number of recent sets, but mostly by historical practice ensembles, who love scratchy fiddle tones, hyperbolic tempos, and the same attitude toward vibrato that some people have for gluten. There are those who prefer such desiccated things. Older complete recordings are spotty. A number of quartet groups started to record complete sets, but never finished. Usually money ran out. 

Among the complete sets, I used to own the Kodaly Quartet cycle on Naxos. They were good, but sometimes less than fully inspired. I packed them away. My current cycle is the ancient set by the Dekany Quartet, originally recorded in Vox Boxes in the 1960s. 

But my two incomplete sets that are truly my go-to are the even older box on Warner of the Pro Arte Quartet, recorded in surprising good sound, in the 1930s. This is how a Haydn quartet is supposed to sound. More modern, by a whisker, is the set recorded by the Alexander Schneider Quartet. I love these, and wish they could have finished all of them. Schneider was the musician I cut my teeth on in the 1960s at his concerts at the New School and Carnegie Hall in New York. Intensity and musicianship out the wazoo. 

Then, there are the piano sonatas, largely ignored until quite recently. My set is by Rudolf Buchbinder. There are sets on fortepiano, but I have never come to terms with the clangy sound of the old instruments. Just a few years ago, super-virtuoso Marc-Andre Hamelin put out a set. I enjoy them, too, but Haydn doesn’t really require a show-off technique. I guess Hamelin was slumming. But he is good, if sometimes faster than the music supports. And who knew? That after Glenn Gould did his best to prove that Mozart was an incompetent composer, that he would do such a wonderful job with Haydn’s late sonatas? But he does. 

But there is so much more with Haydn’s name on it. Piano Trios, for instance (listen to the Beaux Arts Trio), every one a delight. He even wrote some 200 works for the obsolete instrument called the baryton, which his boss had learned to play. And there are various divertimenti, and songs. 

And his major works for chorus and voice, which are among his best. The Creation has been in the repertoire since it was first performed in 1798. There are many recordings, including two by Leonard Bernstein. The earlier, with the New York Phil, can be had in a box with all the Paris and London symphonies, and four of the final six great Masses. The second was from 1986 on Deutsche Grammophon with the Bavarian Radio Orchestra and five great soloists. The Masses are among Haydn’s greatest works, so don’t overlook them. Haydn’s other great oratorio, The Seasons, is sung in English with Thomas Beecham and the Royal Philharmonic, which, like his London Symphonies, just cannot be beat. 

Finally, I want to mention The Last Seven Words Spoken by Our Savior on the Cross, which comprises eight consecutive slow movements followed by an earthquake. He wrote it in 1786 for a Good Friday service in Cadiz, Spain, with a sermon between each movement. It was performed several times during Haydn’s life, was adapted for string quartet in 1787, and for solo piano the same year, and finally in 1796 in a version for orchestra and chorus. The quartet version has been recorded most often. It’s astonishing how the composer can link eight adagios together and each still feels distinct and riveting. 

Haydn has been called the Mahler of the 18th century for the inventive ways he has with his orchestra, making new sounds with combinations, and with the always fresh ways of dealing with form. He gets dismissed too often as just another periwig in a dull century, but he was never that. Pay attention to what he does and you will discover an entire cosmos of music. 

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Deep in your brain, at the back of your skull, lie two small bits of matter, each about the size of a pencil eraser, buried roughly equally in each of the two hemispheres of your brain. Their job is to recognize faces. Called the fusiform face area, it is such a hard-working little department, it will sometimes see faces where there are none. 

Faces are so important for the survival of the species, that as soon as a newborn can focus — not even focus, but begin to do so — it can make out faces from other shapes, and by three days old, it can recognize its mother’s face. 

And through life, the human face remains one of the most engaging visual forms we know. And it is why it is the most frequent subject for art. It covers everything from family snapshots to emojis to political cartoons to the formal portrait. And the portrait has settled in to be one of the conventional genres of art, along with landscape, still life, nude, and abstraction. 

But not all images are the same, or made with the same intent. There are, by my calculation, four overarching categories of pictures of people. The family snaps are the most common. Most of us have a shoebox filled with old pictures, some going back as far as the late 19th century. 

Rowan Steele and family, Sandy Ridge, N.C. ca. 1890

Nowadays, most family pictures exchange the shoebox for the cellphone and cloud. But still, a ton of pictures, most of little significance to anyone but family. 

The second group are the more formal photos, like school pictures, wedding photos, or those grinning Olan Mills family shots, as stiff as plywood and just as expressive. Those, usually in Sunday best, with billboard smiles, is how you would prefer people to see you. 

Jennifer Lopez by Annie Leibovitz

Then, there are the celebrity portraits, by the likes of Annie Leibovitz or Harry Borden. These are made when an actor or author has some new project to sell, and they need a clever image for the cover of Rolling Stone magazine or Vanity Fair. Or the cover of a band’s new CD. In a sense, these are not pictures of people but rather portraits of brands. They are selling us something. 

I don’t want to demean these pictures. The photographers who make such images can be tremendously talented, and their work is often memorable. But they are not usually true portraits, but rather, a form of marketing. 

Carole Steele

Finally, there are the portraits I am writing about, images that attempt to capture something genuine about the sitter. To tell you something about the actual person. It is in their eyes; their ancient glittering eyes. 

I have been making such pictures for more than 50 years, beginning back in the 1970s, when I worked at a camera store in Greensboro, N.C. I photographed like a demon, making records of friends, family and colleagues. At our home, I had one wall of the dining room covered with something like 30 or 40 photographs, held to the wall with small bits of masking tape on their backs. Some of these may have simply been snapshots of friends, but most were attempts at capturing something real or genuine about those subjects. 

Judy Crawford; Ron Pierce; Carole Steele

What most of the images shared were their eyes. I usually tried to get my subjects to look directly into the camera, forcing the viewer to make eye contact and creating a psychological bond with the sitter. Judy Crawford had eyes that were pools of infinite sadness. As Cicero wrote, “The face is a picture of the mind with the eyes as its interpreter.” There is intelligence shining from some, caring and feeling in some, suspicion or cynicism in others. The eyes have it. 

I am now too long in the tooth to mount any more gallery shows, or attempt to publish a book, but I thought I might use this blog to present a sampling of the portraits I have made over the years. Indulge me. 

Aimee Groulx

One of the first portraits I still show is of artist Aimee Groulx, who ran the Groulx School of Art in Greensboro, N.C. Actually, his wife, Adele, ran it. Aimee was the kind of free spirit who could not likely run a bath, let alone a business. I taught at the school briefly. Aimee always dotted the “X” at the end of his name when signing anything. “To prevent forgeries,” he said. 

Hank Hackett

Henry Parrish Lippincott Hackett was born to a mainline Philadelphia Quaker family and was great grandnephew to artist Maxfield Parrish. He was one of my closest friends from college. He was a frequent toker, and once I worried he might be doing too much weed. He assured me he had cut way down. “Only four or five joints a day,” he said. Once, he came to our home, a little bleary, and sat on the floor and said with complete earnestness, “Y’know, I feel more like I do now than I did when I came in.” 

Kacey Lamb

Kacey Lamb always refused to be photographed. By anyone. Maybe she was shy, or maybe she just thought it made her seem more mysterious. One day, when her husband, Larry, was out of town, she took revenge for being left alone by letting me take her picture. “Only one,” she insisted. One click of the shutter, one negative. 

Judy Crawford; Judy with her friend, Minnie

Judy Bryson Crawford was one of the most beautiful beings ever, both outside and inside, and spoke with an engaging drawl from the Blue Ridge Mountains. I first met her in the early 1970s when she lived on Cedar Street in Greensboro, N.C. with Junie Norfleet and Dara Llewellyn. Together they were known as “The Girls,” and their house was a meeting place for many of the more creative-minded young people of the city. She later moved back to her home near Balsam, N.C., just under the shadow of Waterrock Knob.

In 2003, in Phoenix, working at my newspaper, I scrolled the Associated Press wires and accidentally came across her obituary. It was one of the saddest days of my life. She was 56. 

Alexander and Mary Lou Barker

When I was a freshman in college, a rangy young man knocked on my dorm door, hearing that I was listening to a Beethoven quartet on my portable phonograph. We shared a passion for classical music and became lifelong best friends. About once a year Sandro and I drove to the Outer Banks to camp, usually in the winter, when the beaches weren’t crowded. He later married another Guilford alum, Mary Lou Hinton, and eventually moved to the Maine coast. There, always athletically inclined, he took up crosscountry skiing and especially loved skiing uphill.

Sharon Vernon

Sharon Vernon was my unofficial wife for seven years in the 1970s. She had red hair that shone the sun like copper. We saved money for a year so that we could take the next year off work to hike the Appalachian Trail to Maine. We got as far as northern Virginia when she sat down beside the trail and announced, “I’m not taking another step.” We were worn out, and destination hiking can be more tedious than it promises, always looking for the next trail marker and the next lean-to to spend the night. Little time to soak in the glories of nature. So, instead, we spent the rest of the year traveling around the Northeast by car. 

I intended to spend the rest of my life with her, but she decided otherwise, and we split in 1978. I took the train across the country to Seattle. 

Doug Nufer; Linda Olson; Ken Baker

In Seattle, I moved into a house with “The World’s Most Obscene Man,” Doug Nufer, and two lesbian doctors known as Cam and Clink. The house sat across the street from the Woodland Park Zoo, where I wound up working. 

He was a Bucky, which meant he was a bicycle delivery guy, taking mostly legal papers from law firm to law firm, pedaling roughly 50 miles a day up and down the hills of the Emerald City. His Bucky handle was Banana. 

He had previously been writing porno novels (Sixty-Nine In-Laws was his magnum opus), but now writes avant-garde novels, including one that never uses any word more than once. Unreadable, but that never seemed the point. It is often that way with the avant-garde. 

Linda Olson was my girlfriend’s roommate and a deltiologist, or collector of vintage post cards. For years after I left Seattle, we would mail each other tacky post cards we found. Ken Baker was a zookeeper, one of many I got to know there. When zoo management sent out a memo requiring keepers to wash their hands after visiting the bathroom, he got miffed. “Do they even know what zookeepers do? I wash my hands before going.” 

Alice Gilliam; Bill Marshak; Colin Murray

Before I had a straight girlfriend in Seattle, I dated gay Alice, a Bucky like Doug, and we went out together often, and to symphony concerts. She had once been a violinist in a touring Christian orchestra. Marshak was a grad student in Chinese studies, and it was always fun to go to a Chinese restaurant with him and order off-menu, while he chatted with the waiter. Colin (pronounced like Colin Powell) was briefly a housemate and wanted to be a male model, asking me to make some audition shots for him. He never seemed to grasp the irony that his boyfriend’s name was Dick.

Robin Reid

Robin Reid was a zookeeper in the Childrens’ Zoo at Woodland Park. Her hair was blonder than the sun. I fell wildly crazy about her. She was bright and lively, and had been a professional swing dancer at a local hotel. I was hooked, but I found out months later that she was not. “It’s all just hormones,” she said. When she dumped me, I was heartsick and decided to move back East. 

Carole Steele

After a few years of sulking, I was invited by the ex-wife of an old friend to visit her in the North Carolina mountains. We soon married and lived together for 35 years, until her death nine years ago. There has been a hole in the universe since then. Carole was the warmest person I ever knew, and also the smartest. She did not think outside the box; for Carole, there was no box. Widely known to friends as “Queen of the Universe,” she prompted me to everything that made me better. 

Craig and Carole

Eventually, I found some work as adjunct faculty at the same school where my brother, Craig, taught, in Virginia Beach, Va. Carole became an art teacher with the Norfolk school system. I have boxes of 5X7 prints of demonstration prints I made during my six years teaching, many of them from portrait class. 

Craig Nilsen and his wife, Terry

Craig is my brother, and the human being I am closest to. He is an artist, painter and printmaker, and taught full-time at the same school. He got me my job. He is now retired in the Virginia mountains with his wife, Terry. Brothers, like sisters, can have an almost mystical bond that can’t be explained. Perhaps it is shared DNA, or shared experience. 

Anne Iott; Pam Lassiter; Eva Dixon; Steve Wolf

Anne Iott was department head at the school, and bent rules to hire me, and allowed me to teach more hours of class than was technically legal. Her support was enormous, and she arranged for me to begin writing art criticism of the local Norfolk daily newspaper. She and the art staff, including Craig, and painting teacher Steve Wolf, would often have potluck dinners together. Those gatherings could get boisterous. Steve was a body builder and could consume huge amounts of food at a sitting, and once got thrown out of an all-you-can-eat seafood restaurant. Pam Lassiter was ceramics teacher. Eva Dixon was briefly Craig’s amour. She told him she had always wanted to ride an elephant, and so he entered and won a contest when the Barnum and Bailey circus came to town, and gave her his seat on the beast for the parade. 

Charles Williams; and his sketch of Carole and me

Carole’s boss in the Norfolk school system was dating artist Charles Williams, and we became friends. I photographed him, trying to get as close as I could, framing just his face and eyes. He, in turn, made a quick sketch of Carole and me. 

Richard Avedon; Lee Friedlander; Bob Haozous; James Turrell

Carole’s boss moved to Arizona and offered Carole a job there, and so in 1987, we moved to Phoenix, where I got a job writing for The Arizona Republic, mostly as art critic. I have made fewer photographs since then, but I did make my own photos for most of my interviews. I talked to a lot of artists, famous and not. Lee Friedlander was as matter of fact as his pictures. Bob Haozous, son of famous Apache artist Allan Houser, seemed suspicious of whitey critic; James Turrell took me up to the top of the volcano he was modifying outside Flagstaff. I once spent 24 hours in one of his skyspaces to watch it change with the light. There were many others I met and interviewed. 

When I reviewed Richard Avedon’s retrospective at the Whitney in New York, he sent me a note of thanks.  “Not all the New York critics were so kind,” he wrote. And when he came to Phoenix in 1994 to photograph boxer Oscar de la Hoya for The New Yorker, we went out to lunch. Sitting across the table, enjoying the Salvadoran food, he said, “In a sense, I am writing my autobiography through other people’s faces.” 

I suppose that is my excuse for this blog entry. 

Mel Steele

Over the years, my style has changed. Less formal, more relaxed. I photographed my brother-in-law Mel Steele in the 1980s, when he was a motorcyle-racing, gun-shooting, goat-raising artist, whose work sold in the thousands as prints. He grew older; I grew older. His country-nostalgia rural scenes became serious abstract paintings — among my favorite in the world — and my goal of being the next Avedon or Penn dwindled down to trying just to be honest and real. Mel turns 87 in October. He has slowed down, no longer rides motorbikes, and I have slowed down, writing less and making fewer images. 

And the effect on my being part of an inseparable bond with Carole, led me to pay way more attention to the interactions between people, and the number of dual portraits increased. 

Carole and Julie Ross 

The interaction between people is the essential valence of existence. It breaks the dam of isolation and opens the world up. Carole broke me open. 

Carole and Ruth Haggerty

When Carole was a little girl, Ruth was her best friend, living across the street. They lost touch for most of their lives, but became reacquainted something like 60 years later. But you can see in their eyes the connection had never fully been lost. 

Curtis Beckman and Isabel Fierros

I saw that warmth and connection in our friends Curtis and Isabel. I believe, but can’t prove, that my own age, my own intense partnership with Carole, softened me, made me more open, aware of others and their richness and complexity. 

Rob Lehman and Hank Hackett; Ursula McLaughlin and her daughter, Mia

As I look back through this sampling of portraits over 50 years, I see that those pairs have always been there. Hank and Rob from the ’70s; Ursula and her daughter from the ’80s. 

John and Alice Nilsen

And when I revisited a photograph I made many decades ago of my parents, John and Alice, I recognized something I didn’t see when I first took the photo. It’s in their eyes.

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