Working with the pita bread as a stencil — or a tool — rather than an object collaged onto the canvas opened up a door and helped me find a path. I simplified my use of color. Things calmed down. And I found my voice.

I started with three paintings using bold color. Red. Then Green. Then Yellow.

So, it turned out that Ross did hate my assemblage/“painting/pita-glued to canvas” process and products that I dared to call paintings. For Ross, a painting was made of paint. He made a simple suggestion: use the pita bread as a tool and not as an object. That made all the difference.

I began to use the pita bread as a stencil — placing them on the flat canvas and then splattering, spraying and pouring paint around them. I diluted the paint with water and medium and used a sprayer or, like our ancestors in their caves, blew the paint on the canvas from a straw.

Adding dots made with the end of a brush and little starbursts (24″x24″)

I loved teaching. For many years, I was blessed to be in a trusted place to mentor young men, help them discover and develop their talents — and to grow to appreciate and value themselves. Three times in my life as an artist I have been blessed with men who have done that same thing for me. The first was Franklyn in Los Angeles. The second was my thesis director at Pratt, Ross Neher.

I first met Ross when I took his Drawing Seminar in my first semester at Pratt — life drawing from a model twice a week. Ross would position the model in her/his pose and we would begin to draw. He sat back and read the Wall Street Journal. A couple of times during the class, Ross would walk around and comment on our work. He was honest and direct. He was not warm and fuzzy.

That same semester I took a painting class from a very kind and gentle man named Jerry Hayes. One day, Jerry came by my studio to see what I was working on. I was still playing with pita bread and gluing wire and other objects to canvases. I was completely lost and uncertain of what I was doing. And, as ever, wondering what I was doing trying to get an M.F.A. Jerry examined one of the pita-bread painting/assemblages that I’d brought from Los Angeles. He asked me, “Do you know Ross Neher?” I said I did, that I was taking him for a drawing course that semester. “Has he seen your work?” I said that no, he hadn’t. Jerry then assured me, “Well, he’d really hate it.”

Well, I wanted to find out what Ross really would think so I asked him to come by my studio. And Jerry was right: Ross really hated what I was doing with my painting/assemblages with pita bread, paint can lids and sticks. His response was not ambiguous.

One of the good things about being 40 rather than 20 beginning graduate school was that over the years I had accumulated enough bruises and scars to my ego that I could (not easily, mind you) accept criticism. I sensed that Ross was a man of substance and integrity — and that his opinion mattered. That he had something to say. So I asked him to explain his response. In fact, I would eventually ask him to be my Thesis director.

As I would come to learn, Ross was something of a purist when it came to painting. A painting should be made out of paint. Collage, assemblage, new forms etc., etc. — they might all be something and might have their own value as art in their own way (I doubt that Ross believed that) — but of one thing Ross was certain: they are not painting. If I wanted to be a painter, in his eyes, I should use paint. Period.

I came to respect his integrity and clarity. I began to appreciate that Ross was honoring a tradition that dated back centuries. A tradition that was under assault by all sort of new technologies and new forms — and by the popular notion that “painting was dead.” For Ross, it wasn’t. It was a discipline that demanded respect. And that respect is what Ross demanded of me…when he advised me of how much he hated what I had been doing with paint, pita bread, glue, wires and all sorts of other extraneous objects.

But there was something more: in his honesty and directness, he was taking me seriously as a painter. And calling me to do something more serious. To be something more serious. And he knew, I think, that as a Jesuit priest, I knew something about the value and values of a tradition. Consciously or unconsciously, he was challenging me.

I am grateful I was able to accept the challenge. And learn. Even in my 40’s.

I don’t cry easily. That doesn’t mean I’m not emotional. Just that I’m Irish. The drive across country was a wonderful experience. I enjoy solitude — and Interstate 70 offered me miles upon miles of it. As each mile receded behind me, I was leaving a well formed and comfortable image of Tom O’Neill. “Fr. Tom”: every 17 year old boy’s favorite Jesuit at Loyola High. It was true. And it was killing me.

Something new awaited me in New York. I wasn’t afraid of being on the other side of the desk again. School was something I knew how to do. But…

When I got to Pratt I was assigned a studio space in Steuben Hall. It turned out to be a large cubicle formed by four freshly painted white walls. The floor was covered and splattered with several years of paint. The traces of previous painter-pilgrims who had passed through the same halls and walls.

I began to unpack boxes of paint and supplies. Carried up several blank canvases that would soon be…well, something. But I had no idea what, just yet. Then I stopped and looked around. And broke into tears.

What was a doing here? I had no business being here. I was a fraud. It didn’t help that pretty much everyone who I met in my first days at Pratt were in their 20’s and full of energy, confidence and ready to take on the world. They were also freshly out of their undergraduate Fine Art programs and were well groomed and well honed in the latest verbiage and jargon of the art world. They were the gnostics who spoke a language of art in the new 21st Century — a language that was a mystery to me.

I was twice their age. I was teaching kids like them just two years ago. Put me behind a podium in front of 30 sophomores, and I’m an expert. A star.

Put me alone in my studio in Brooklyn. I’m a mess. And my tears confirmed it.

It was my friend Tom McCormick who urged me to pursue an M.F.A. in painting. Tom was always the loving guardian angel on my shoulder, seeing my gifts, encouraging my dreams and loving me as I was. And am. Here is a photo taken at the good-bye party given my by friends when I left Loyola High to begin the pilgrimage to Brooklyn. It’s my favorite photo of Tom and Tom.

My beard is now getting white too. There are worse people to become. Tom went home to God way too soon. I miss him deeply.

Sometime in August of 2000, I packed up my life in a UHaul truck and headed east. Rather than ship things to New York, I decided to drive. I always wanted to drive across the US, and this was a chance to do so. But even more, this move was not just a move, it was a deeply felt step on a pilgrimage. I emphatically needed to see Loyola High School in the rear view mirror. Not because I didn’t love my time there. In fact, just the opposite — I loved it too much. Or too small a part of me loved it too much.

The M.F.A. was not about adding initials to my pedigree, but about allowing hidden and neglected parts of me, of my soul, to step out into the light. How that was going to happen, I wasn’t sure about. But in order for that to happen, I had to say good-bye to 1901 Venice Boulevard and Rooms 313 and 901. AMDG.

So, after spending a year taking classes at Art Center in Pasadena, Otis College of Art and Design in L.A. and a couple of classes at U.C.L.A. extension, I had built up enough of a portfolio to apply to M.F.A. programs. I had no idea what I was doing — so I picked programs in cities that I thought it would be fun to live in.

On March 11, 2000, my 44th birthday, I received 8 rejection letters in the same mail delivery. Ouch. For over 10 years, as every boys’ favorite priest at Loyola High, I had counseled and consoled many a young man that his rejection from Stanford or Yale or whatever was simply part of God’s plan and that he would end up where God wanted him in the end.

Well, rejection sucks. So figured that graduate work in Fine Art just wasn’t part of the plan. Until the first week of May. One morning, a large manila envelop appeared in my mailbox: “Congratulations…” Not only was I accepted into an M.F.A. program, but it was to be in the greatest city on earth. New York.

This was to be home for the next two years.

One day as I was writing/sketching in my journal, I glanced over at Bear and did this quick drawing. A moment of inspiration for me. The usual for him.

Once again, I’m returning after a long hiatus. Here is some work from hither and yon.

A drawing for a friend

This is proof that I can actually stay within the lines if I need to.

Another painting that I gave Mark: one of the series I had done reflecting on Genesis One. Since Mark’s death in 1999, it has found a home of Jane and Jim McNaught in San Juan Capistrano. Jane is Mark’s sister. She was kind enough to send me a photo of my painting.

Two multi-media assemblages

Working with Franklyn, I did some multi-media work. Here are two of my favorites.

Vincent Van Gogh has become something of a patron saint for me. One of my earliest introductions to serious art was when I was able to see a major collection of his work in 1970. The Van Gogh Museum was being constructed in Amsterdam and the main corpus of his work was sent on a world tour. The De Young Museum was one of the places to exhibit this “once in a lifetime” show.

I remember standing in line with hundreds of others to catch a glimpse of Vincent’s work — 14 year old me trying to look over the shoulders of bigger people to see his Sunflowers, landscapes and empty old shoes. Then my mom read a brief notice in a local neighborhood newspaper that the exhibition was being held over one extra day. I went back. And the museum was almost empty. Just me and Vincent — and a few other souls. I think that day Vincent began to speak to my soul:

He wanted to serve God from the pulpit. But he found his voice, mission and salvation in paint. While I’ve not lost the pulpit in my life, in my best moments — and most healthy and grounded, it’s paint that is usually there too.

This image is made up of several significant elements:

• an icon of Jesus
• a postcard of Vincent, with had and red beard
• the cut out border of another postcard with a small piece of a stamp from the Netherlands (a card sent to me by a close friend)
• an old stretched canvas; ragged and stained, I turned it over to use not its surface but its hidden interior
• two pieces of old undergraduate drawings
• three pieces of the set of Loyola High’s Midsummer Night’s Dream painted with high luster deep blue stage paint
• 5 Eucalyptus acorns (Franklyn always told us to use odd numbers when adding elements) These acorns are from a tree in Golden Gate Park — the very tree that I stood under in 1970 waiting to get into the Van Gogh exhibition
• liquid varnish poured onto the icon/old canvas

Tribute to Michelangelo, 1999

Another assemblage with significant elements:

• a charcoal drawing of a street from a summer course at the California College of Arts and Crafts in Oakland sometime in the 1980’s
• another old canvas turned upside down and painted with black gesso
• the back of a piece of canvas board painted with light blue, with black gesso drips
• another piece of the set from Midsummer Nights Dream
• old tube of blue oil paint
• torn page of old journal
• wire spine of journal with single page attached
• edge of back cover of journal painted with black gesso
• five Eucalyptus acorns attached with black caulking material
• photo of Michelangelo’s Deposition from the Cross/Pieta from Florence
• poured liquid varish

The image of Michelangelo’s sculpture is something that I purchased in Florence when I went to Europe for the first time in 1974. I was transfixed by this work of art. I lost all track of time and discovered that I had been in front of it for over an hour. That is when I discovered the power of art. The image is one that I treasured. Every place I ever lived, from San Francisco, to Davis, to the Novitiate, LMU, Fordham and Loyola High — it was the very first thing I put on the wall. In 1988, I gave it to Mark Toohey as a Christmas present.

In 1999, after Mark’s death, his brother Rick was sorting through his belongings. He asked me if I knew anything about the photo. I claimed it. But I could no longer just hang it on the wall. It meant something new now. So I baptized it with paint, gesso, varnish and eucalyptus acorns.

A painting that I didn’t screw up

Loosely based on the Book of Kells, I used black caulk to outline the basic figure then starting pouring liquid acrylic paint onto the canvas while it was flat on some sawhorses. Added a couple of pieces of cheesecloth that were saturated with paint, some gel medium and lots and lots of gesso. Always lots of gesso. Did some detail work on the eyes.

This is a large painting. And a success. Mainly because I stopped before I f***ed it up by overworking it. Which I usually do when left to my own devices. Let go. I’m still learning.

It is a sad (for me) testimony to my limited fidelity to art and art making that I seem to return to this blog every two years or so. So here I am again.

I was blessed with Franklyn’s mentoring — and soon, his friendship. I had been the faithful teacher for so many — and now, someone took an interest in me: in my talents, in my dreams, in my hopes and the trepidation that I had in trying to realize them.

I was broken hearted to find out that Franklyn died, quite unexpectedly, on February 29, 2012. He was a muse, an alchemist, a searcher…and a friend.

A Review of a memorial show in his honor, written by Margarita Nieto in the Visual Art Source described Franklyn:

Los Angeles artist-teacher-mentor Franklyn Liegel passed away suddenly on February 29th of last year. A prominent member of the downtown artist community, this memorial exhibition draws not only from Liegel’s body of work, but from a number of fellow artists in a tribute to his active presence here. It also opens up the enormous space his absence creates. His passing elicited an immediate outpouring of grief from former students and friends that was expressed previously in the June, 2012, “Franklyn Calm, Franklyn Excited, Franklyn Artist” at AndrewShire Gallery. The artist’s unfinished works, based on the bits and pieces of things found in his studio, were distributed to his students and friends after his passing so those who knew and loved him might continue creating the abstract collage and two-dimensional assemblage works inspired by the late artist.

Liegel taught at Otis, Art Center, USC, the Crossroads School, the Los Angeles County High School for the Arts, and at the New School for Social Research in New York, which presented him with the first annual award for Teaching Excellence in 1988. A dedicated following took his courses term after term and year after year. This exhibition places his contributions as an innovative abstract artist alongside his achievement as a generous teacher.

A generous teacher. That is how I dearly remember him. I miss him. And I need his spirit to nudge me out of myself and back to the Studio.

A year later, and I’m back again. 2018 now. Nearly 20 years ago, I was lovingly ensconced in my life as a teacher at Loyola High School. On the outside, everything was beyond wonderful: I was devotedly and happily teaching my sophomores and seniors, painting sets in Hannon Theater, serving as chaplain for several teams — and unbeknownst to anyone — including, it turns out, myself — slowly dying inside. Popular and esteemed, I found myself giving what I no longer had or held: my very self.

So. I went back to school. It was my beloved friend and mentor, Fr. Tom McCormick, S.J., who one late night after hearing dozens of confessions on a Kairos retreat, said something to my heart that stirred my spirit. It was the Holy Spirit speaking through the puffs of his cigarette, “You should go get a degree in art.”

So I did. But first I had work to do. I had no portfolio with which to apply to schools. I didn’t even know what M.F.A. programs wanted. Or if they would be interested in who was then a 40-something good-at-painting-high-school- sets but otherwise uncertain if he could shed the seductive attachments of Room 901 to be something more…me.

With the support of my Jesuit community, I set sail to find a different me. Or better, parts of me that were lost. That quick watercolor based on the Prodigal Son touched something deep. My empty husks were adulation and ovations. And loves that were not love. Yes, it involved going to a gym, losing nearly 40 pounds (all back and more…the journey never ends) and finding friends who were old enough to vote.

I found non-degree classes at Otis College of Art and Design, Art Center in Pasadena and UCLA. But most of all, I found my first mentor and friend, Franklyn Liegel. A painting class at Otis. It began embarrassingly. Do a pencil sketch. I didn’t have a pencil. And didn’t know how to ask for one. So I did a drawing in paint. “Curious,” Franklyn said. And thus began a wonderful friendship. I studied with Franklyn at both Otis and Art Center. He was serious about art-making…and he took me seriously as an artist.

Franklyn encouraged me to experiment with materials. One of the first paintings that I completed used images from the Book of Kells, spilled enamel paint, bits of magazine photos cut into pieces, a couple of different kinds of acrylic gels, pieces of Irish linen, a torn piece of a watercolor — and a 6th grade religion project. Franklyn walked by as I was just about to add something else to this collection of materials — and almost yelled at me to “stop.” It has been a forever problem for me to know when and how to stop painting a painting. I’ve ruined more than a few paintings by overworking them. It’s something about the 6th grade homework assignment: “I worked, I worked, I worked…” Sometimes you just have to stop. A good teacher saved this painting for me.

Then another assignment. Collage something onto/into the painting. (A future teacher at Pratt would find that suggestion abhorrent, I would later discover…) For years, I painted sets in Hannon Theater at Loyola High. For years. The only painting I did was then and there. And not fully mine. Over the years, I collected dozens of paint can lids — all sorts of different colors. So I decided to take a few of them and “repurpose” them. Bring them into my world. My paintings. My life. Now.

The first was a landscape of Celtic megaliths. Big Irish rocks. Out in the open. Out in the weather. Out in the world. Like I was just starting to be. And then another — less successful attempt. Hey, why not throw a stick onto the canvas?Oh yeah, and a page from the Bible.

…my Lord, it’s been 20 years and I’m still trying to find my voice.

How about some Pita Bread?

So, the painting that I made using the lids from cans of paint led me to another idea. I liked the notion of gluing things to the canvas (I would later encounter a professor at Pratt who considered such behavior something of a mortal sin, but that’s a few years away.) I liked the round shape of the paint can lids, but found it too, well, round. And perfect. And mechanical. So — and I don’t remember why — I started to use Pita Bread. I let the bread harden in the air, then covered it with acrylic medium, which (sort of) sealed it. Then I experimented with all sorts of techniques, colors and materials to make a collection of “pita” figures. They all had something of a figurative quality. Like faces.

I eventually combined these canvases into a collection of five, but originally they were individual paintings. The first one, pita bread with acrylic paint, gloss medium and coffee grounds. Franklyn had me use a pinkish white to edit down the form; the second used heavy texture medium and little ceramic tiles I bought years ago in Ravenna, Italy; the third some sort of heavy goop driveway sealant (why not?) and the last two gesso — always gesso and paint (with a touch of gold foil.)More and more of the same. I was having fun playing with materials. The second one above used some napkins that had soaked up some of the paint I was experimenting with…why not make them part of the painting?

There were about 5 or 6 more of these paintings, I began to lose them when I moved to New York for grad school. Mice found them in my studio. And, well pita bread is bread.

Pita bread with a mixing stick and some eucalyptus acorns.

In the lower left of this painting, I was using an electric sander to remove some build-up of paint: I burned through the canvas. I liked it.

When I eventually got to Pratt, one of my first professors, Jerry Hayes, a gentle and kind man, looked at these paintings and asked me, “Has Ross Neher seen your work?” I was taking Ross for a drawing class at the time — my first semester. I said, “No, why?” Jerry said, “Oh, he would hate them.”

I wanted to know why. So I took Ross the next semester for a painting seminar. Turned out he did hate these paintings. And then went on to unlock a door for me. But that’s a bit later in my story.

Six days of Creation. God creates. God works: Separates, divides, gathers, adds — order drawn from chaos.

One day. It’s good. After another. It’s good. And another. It’s good. And still good. The Artist at work. The Creator creating. Steps back. Sees what’s happening on the canvas — or the cosmos — and likes it. And goes back to work. Because that’s what Creators do. What they must do.

The Deity: All-powerful; Omniscient; Omnipotent; Eternal; Infinite; Wisdom; Mystery; Awesome; Perfect; Mighty; Ancient of Days; Sovereign…yes, yes, yes and yes. But in this tale, God’s just an Artist at work.

Me too. Just a bit…in a studio more messy and muddled.

We human critters create because we must — image and likeness and all that. I do it the only way that I can. The only way I know how. The way God made me.

In 1997,  I began this series on the first chapter of Genesis. I did about 5 or 6 pieces using watercolor, prismacolor pencils, ink and gesso…always gesso. These paintings are almost 20 years old now — and I never got beyond the one with green-growing things (I never finished that one.) And I never got to Tom McCormick’s anticipated favorite of them all, “creeping things” — as he’d say between slugs of coffee and puffs of smoke, “crepitandibus!”

I’ve long felt the desire to return to this subject matter. Matter. And Grace.

And, for Tom, Crepitandibus. Stay tuned.