Platinum-palladium prints from Los Caprichos: after Goya, an artist’s book inspired by an eighteenth-century masterpiece of the same name: Francisco José de Goya y Lucientes’ album of eighty satirical aquatints, published in 1799.
Los Caprichos means literally: whims. The images are photographed from video source and printed in platinum-palladium. In keeping with the original’s mordant and pun-laden commentary, each of the images is printed with a caption — in Spanish.
The auction biz is a growth industry — with the white hot molten core in New York seeking new nodes in the bubble economies of California. Who are these new, tremendously juicy west coast elites suddenly swelling in the old houses’ appreciation? “A younger generation of Hollywood producers and actors in Southern California including Leonardo DiCaprio and Tobey Maguire; venture capital firms and hedge funds in San Francisco; technology executives in Silicon Valley; and wealthy Chinese and Indian families all along the coast”, according to Sotheby’s newly appointed west coast chief (see Sotheby’s Uses $200 Million of Art to Woo West Coast Rich).
(Los Caprichos is a series of platinum palladium prints inspired by Goya’s 18th-century album of the same name.)
Fuji’s instant film is gorgeous; I’ve shot with it often enough before, but never to do still life. The trick to getting consistent results on instant film is to swab the polaroid back rollers with alcohol before loading each new pack. (The parcheesi men here were stowaways in a vase I found at Urban Ore, Berkeley’s greatest recycle and reuse store—aka junk shop.)
More Caprichos are in the works… Meanwhile, I’ve been sketching with the phone camera, working on still life ideas — and I liked this image. (Think I may do a series of them on Fuji instant film. It would help empty out the fridge…)
It’s almost time to eat the pears… I had dinner last night with my painter friend, Tim Rice, and two of his friends — one an actor and the other a collector. The conversation was lively — we’d just been to an opening, and talk was about changes to the gallery world (the magaritas helped buoy the mood, in spite of the subject). This morning when I got to the studio, Lisa, the collector, had left a bag of Asian pears on the stoop. I must have told her that my Boscs were nearing their end.
Tomorrow, maybe another run to the junk shop. There was a brass candlestick I wish I’d gotten last time.
More postings on the Caprichos soon, too. The hand lettering is coming along, slowly but surely.
Turning to the world inside the studio at the moment — and there’s a lot going here. I’ve submitted a portfolio of the Ohio Woods work to Photolucida’s 2014 Critical Mass. This is my first time doing it, so I’m not sure what to expect or how fruitful it’ll be. Meanwhile, the Caprichos are undergoing intensive changes and each one requires hours of focused work. Sometimes I need a change of pace — so I’ve been doing some still life. It sounds easy, or at least easier, than many types of photography, but it in fact it’s a mysterious and exacting discipline. I’ve been an admirer of Jan Groover’s work for some time, and still remember a Morandi show at SF’s Paul Thiebaud Gallery that I saw years ago. I’d always meant to set aside the time to work at it.
We’ve got a great junk shop here in Berkeley — Urban Ore; it’s where I bought the trunk this group is sitting on. It’s not too heavy (the trunk), and I can move it around the studio, following the light. One thing I’ve learned the hard way: every object has to contribute vitality to the picture.
One printing project has come to an end (a digital restoration and palladium copy print of a portrait (ca. 1913) by Gertrude Käsebier, and now I’m planning the next few weeks’ worth of printing. I’ll be working on Caprichos, of course, and also some new still lifes — this is one.
New work for Los Caprichos: after Goya: the caption can be translated as “so many followers”. The original Caprichos contain a number of images that show dubious authority figures and their fulsome adherents, either emphasizing the blind slavishness of the latter or the fatuous pretensions of the former:
Here I give you a contemporary riff on that theme.
The first post in a long while: I’ve been working intensively on the Caprichos. The lettering has been the hardest part: my aim has always been a simulacrum of the 18th-century round hand script used by the master calligrapher(s) who inscribed Goya’s legends. (For a sample of the elegant fluidity of the original, click here.) When I first encountered Goya’s plates years ago, I naively assumed that he’d written the legends himself, on each of the images. Subsequently, I realized that would have been impossible: he produced thousands of individual Caprichos during the brief period of their production, and hand-lettering them all would have been staggeringly difficult for all the reasons I’ve already encountered: you simply can’t afford to make mistakes! Last year, I had the chance to inspect one of the British Museum’s bound presentation albums, prepared by Goya for a patron/friend. With the chance to hold it in my hands and eyeball it in a raking light, I could see clearly that the lettering was part of the plate, something Robert Hughes also notes in his study Goya (New York: Knopf, 2003), but which I’d somehow overlooked in my reading. So that explained a few things—yet knowing this didn’t diminish my admiration for the skill of the calligrapher; in fact, it increased it, because I can’t imagine how it was done (drypoint directly on the plates?).
Meanwhile, I’ve been writing my legends out by hand (this is the laborious, somewhat nerve-wracking part) and then scanning them so they can become part of the negative, which is ultimately printed in platinum-palladium. The one you see above is a recent one. The translation in English would be “every man for himself”.
Note: in “Goya’s Caprichos” (Print Quarterly, vol. 10, no. 2, June 1993, 187–189), Janis Tomlinson questions Juliet Wilson-Bareau’s position that Goya was responsible for making the captions to the Caprichos. The fact is that the orthography is varied—and this has always made me wonder about the calligraphic aspect of production. Tomlinson also emphasises how little we know about the origins of the project: “Despite the seeming familiarity of Los Caprichos, our knowledge about the series if very limited. [...] [W]e in fact know very little about the artist’s motives or intended audience.” What we do know is that it was the first of Goya’s works to be offered for sale to the general public, and that it was a financial disaster.