thomas george

Read “A Conversation with Thomas George” by Harry Naar, Professor of Fine Arts & Gallery Director, Rider University. It was conducted on the occasion of “Thomas George: New Work, Drawings and Pastels,” an exhibit that was on view at at the Rider University Art Gallery from March 2 – April 6, 2006.

A Conversation with Thomas George

By Harry I. Naar, Professor of Fine Arts & Gallery Director, Rider University ~ January, 2006

I know that you use a sketchbook. What role does carrying and using a sketchbook play in your work?

I’ve been using a sketchbook since the beginning of my career and have filled some 100 sketchbooks with whatever has caught my eye. Although formally trained as an artist, I literally learned to draw by using a sketchbook. It lets me work immediately and directly from the things I see. The process of learning to draw using a sketchbook is similar to the way in which, following my academic training, I really learned to paint. After World War II, when I left the service and went to Europe to study on the G.I. Bill, I taught myself to paint by copying works—primarily those of Monet, Renoir, and other Impressionists—at the Jeu de Paume in Paris. Whenever possible since then, I’ve worked directly from the sources of my visual inspiration. The sketchbooks help me to do that.

How do you go about making your large black-and-white ink drawings?

I attack the paper with ink, water, and brush, and I carefully observe what is evolving on the paper. [See the drawing entitled “Southwest” on the cover] These drawings are the result of years of thinking, experimenting, and keeping alive a passionate interest in my subject matter. When I’m making a drawing, I travel “the razor’s edge.” One side of the razor is technical skill; the other side is feeling. An artist has to be feeling as well as thinking and executing. If you fall off the razor’s edge, you end up (depending on which side you fall) either with deficient technique or mere decoration.

At the recent Van Gogh show at the Metropolitan Museum, I noticed that, in some of his ink drawings, Van Gogh used pencil to sketch the composition. In your ink drawings, do you sketch an underlying pattern or otherwise create marks to give you a “road map?”

No, I go at it with brush, water, and ink directly. Over the years, I’ve used this technique a good deal out-of-doors, working immediately from nature. Often the work doesn’t succeed, so I destroy it and begin again. I don’t make any underlying marks to guide me.

One of the most beautiful qualities of your drawings is the abstract relationship you develop between the black brush lines and the white space. The Chinese as well as some western artists—Cézanne, for example—believed that the design of a painting or drawing must take into account not only the objects depicted but also the spaces around and between the objects. What are your thoughts about the white spaces or “empty areas” in your drawings?

I try to be attentive and inventive in that magic moment when the white paper is suddenly transformed by the black marks I make upon it. As I proceed, there comes the time when the accumulation of black marks creates the impression of white marks on black space. I play with this idea differently in various drawings. An example of the sense of white marks on black space is the drawing entitled “Galaxy,” 2005.

What roles do direct observation and memory play in your work?

Even though much of my work—like these recent drawings—is basically abstract, I rely on nature for knowledge and inspiration. Looking at nature is where it all starts for me. The cumulative impressions that I gather outdoors eventually go into the works that I make in the studio. In the sense that I transform what I’ve seen and felt in nature into abstract works in the studio, memory of course plays an important role. It’s memory heightened by feeling.

What roles do experimentation and improvisation play in your drawings?

The ink drawings in this show are strongly experimental and improvisational. Of course, the combination of medium (brush-and-ink) with style (abstraction) permits and indeed requires considerable experimentation and improvisation. I might add that these new drawings seem to me an amalgam of everything I’ve done and learned. I’m excited about this new work because I feel freer now than I’ve ever felt.

Like Cézanne with Mont Ste. Victoire or Monet with his water lilies, you often revisit certain landscapes. For example, you worked for many years in the Lofoten Mountains in Norway or the pond at the Institute for Advanced Study in Princeton. Why do you like to work with the sources of visual inspiration repeatedly?

Well, I never feel as though I’m repeating myself in a mechanical or superficial way; there is always more to see or to see in different ways. Moreover, the places I’ve chosen for inspiration are not static; they are endlessly changing—with light, weather, perspective, and so on. But I like to return to the same scenes largely because I believe that repetition can be a path to wisdom, and that wisdom is an essential part of meaningful originality.

In your pastel paintings, there are many different transitions of color and tonality, and the overall feeling is atmospheric and impressionistic. What role does color play in your pastels?

The role of color is very important in the pastels in terms of creating the sense of form, light, and mood. In the early 1980s, when I wanted to expand my vocabulary as a painter, I sensed that I needed to learn to do more with color. So I went to what I think of as a painter’s color laboratory: gardens. For the most part, I worked in Monet’s great garden at Giverny as well as in two superb British gardens, Bodnant in Wales and Hidcote in the Cotswolds.

Do you approach the development of a pastel painting in the same way as an ink drawing?

Definitely not. The drawings are immediate and spontaneous; the pastels are contemplative and “gradual.” I approach the ink drawings intensely, whereas the pastels evolve slowly and reveal themselves during extended periods of painting. Working in nature and using the particular medium of pastel are both largely responsible for this. With pastels, unlike with ink, you can build up the colors and forms, carefully and iteratively.

These pastels, which are truly beautiful, call to mind some works of artists like Turner, Redon, and Bonnard. Are these artists for whom you have an affinity? And what other artists interest you?

This is excellent company. I do admire Turner, Redon, and Bonnard. As regards working with pastels, I’ve learned a lot from looking at Degas, a master of the medium. As for other artists who interest me, I must mention Arthur Dove. One of the greatest twentieth century American painters, Dove is the artist from whom I’ve gotten the most inspiration. (I should note that, to the best of my knowledge, Dove didn’t even work in pastels.) It’s hard for me to explain why I feel so “connected” to Dove’s work. In any case, it happened from the moment I first saw some of his paintings. I felt an immediate love for his work.

What roles have the landscape and cosmology played in the development of your art?

I’m an artist of the natural world. I’ve been most interested in working with mountains, trees, gardens, water, sky, and even—to borrow your term—cosmology. And I believe that the heavens and the earth are deeply connected. One important aspect of the connection—the aspect that has most informed my work—is the visual connection. If you look at images captured by electron microscopes as well as those discovered in galactic space, you often see remarkable similarities. [See the drawing entitled “Birth of a Star”] Certain forms and colors seem to repeat themselves throughout nature, on small and vast scales alike. You can find rhythmic sequences that are identical, and I’ve used some of these in my work. I might add that in these universal connections dwells the mystery of life and, by extension, of art.

From 1959 to 1981, you showed your work at the Betty Parsons Gallery in New York. Parsons was one of the most important galleries in this country for contemporary art, and Betty Parsons was one of the leading forces in the art world. What was your association with Betty Parsons like?

I was with Betty Parsons and her gallery for 22 years—until just before she died. Betty was my mentor, and her eye for art was the eye of an artist. When looking at and commenting on new work by the painters she represented, she was wonderfully direct, honest, and stimulating. After each of her visits to my studio, I couldn’t get back to work fast enough. Even if she didn’t like something I was working on, she gave me the ability and desire to work harder and better. So I had great respect for what Betty felt and said. This kind of support was an inspiration, and I’ll never forget the debt I owe this extraordinary woman.

Are there any other thoughts you might like to share?

I believe that, if you live long enough, you will discover that ideas and events repeat themselves with surprising frequency. Everything is new and nothing is new, so I feel we must be open-minded and receptive and yet, at the same time, steadfast in our beliefs. If we have confidence in our artistic skills and have a passionate interest in something in life, we can make art that connects. The needs of the artist and the viewer will thus be fulfilled.