Painting Narratives: Untitled 1 (Portrait Series)

Bruna Massadas, Untitled 1 (Portrait Series), 2012. Acrylics on panel, 18 X 24.

He told her to meet him at 5 PM that rainy afternoon. She arrived at the coffee shop at 5:10 hoping she wouldn’t have to wait. She looked around and he wasn’t there. “Maybe it’s the traffic,” she thought. She walked to the cashier, ordered a caramel macchiato, and dropped the change on the tip jar. She carried her coffee to a table as if she was wearing heels (although she was not). As she sat down, she positioned her body diagonally from the door and tried not to look at the door so often. She kept her eyes at her watch, allowing herself to look directly at the door every 30 seconds for 2 seconds. As she saw him opening the door from the corner of her eyes, she dipped her index finger in the coffee and slowly licked the whipped cream off. She was ready to tell him that she didn’t see him coming. But it wasn’t him. 

Studio Work

Henri Matisse, The Red Studio, Oil on canvas, 1911.

Philip Guston, The Studio, Oil on canvas, 1969.

Jasper Johns, Savarin Can with Brushes, Painted bronze, 1960.

Alice Neel, Self-Portrait, Oil on canvas, 1980.

Bruna Massadas, Katelyn Eichwald Painting, Charcoal on paper, 2012.

The Shape of Things

1. A reality TV show

Promotional poster for Face Off, a reality-competition TV show featuring complete
 face/body transformations through prosthetics and make-up, 2011. 

2. A photograph I took in undergrad

Adair Stephens, Other no. 1, Gelatin silver print, 2008.

3. A recent painting

Bruna Massadas, Mother of All, Acrylic on canvas, 2012, 42 x 54 in.

4. A music video

Cropped still from the music video for "Rio" by Duran Duran, directed by Russell Mulcahy, 1982.

5. An older painting

Henri Matisse, Femme au chapeau (Woman with a Hat), Oil on canvas, 1905, 31 1/4 x 23 1/2 in.

6. A play and movie

Movie poster for The Shape of Things, a play (2001) and movie (2003)
written and directed by Neil LaBute in which a woman slowly and secretly
 "sculpts" a man by convincing him to alter his appearance and personality.

Looking: A Painting that Is Not Mine / A Painting that Is Mine

Anita Malfatti, A Onda (The Wave), c. 1915.

Anita Malfatti, A Onda (The Wave), c. 1915, (Detail).

Anita Malfatti, A Onda (The Wave), c. 1915, (Detail).

A Painting that Is Not Mine

I first see a painting from the distance. I am far away from it, but I can identify its size and its relationship to other objects and/or people around it.  I walk and the painting moves with my body. I realize my body’s relationship to the painting changes constantly (and so does my perception). Then, I stop. Take it all in. To me, this is the distance that excites me the least—medium distance. This is the place where I “understand” the painting the most because I see its entirety. This distance from the painting feels like I am looking at the painting through a computer screen. I slowly get closer and closer, until I get as close as possible. My nose becomes the only barrier between my eyes and the painting. My eyes wander and I cannot see anything in the corner of my eyes but the painting. I look at each stroke, lump, residue from one corner to the other. While I stare at each corner, I realize the painting is many small paintings. The painting multiples and moves in ways I never thought it would. The painting transforms in front of me—it is not as static as I though it was.

A Painting that Is Mine

When I make a painting, I see it from very close. My first encounter with a painting as a maker is the materials, then the shapes, colors, textures as I create it. Every painting is created very intimately at first. The more I add to the painting, the more distance I need from it. (I am one of those who keeps checking every distance and angle possible). The process of making is the process of detaching. A painting gets closer to being done when I am able to detach my body from it—believing it can live by itself and it doesn’t need me anymore.

The act of making paintings does not allow me to see paintings so statically. 

Bruna Massadas, The Giant's Eye, 2012. Acrylics on canvas,  10 X 14 inches. (Detail).

Bruna Massadas, The Giant's Eye, 2012. Acrylics on canvas,  10 X 14 inches. (Detail).

Bruna Massadas, The Giant's Eye, 2012. Acrylics on canvas,  10 X 14 inches. 

"I Need a Reason to Make a Pink Painting"

Wayne Thiebaud, Cakes, 1963. Oil on canvas, 152.4 x 182.9 cm, National Gallery of Art, Washington D.C.

Bruna Massadas, Untitled, 2012. Acrylics on board, 18 X 24inches. 

David Hockney, Man In Shower in Beverly Hills, 1964. Acrylic on canvas, 65 1/2 x 65 1/2 in.

Jordan Kantor, Untitled (113577), 2011. Oil on canvas, 21 x 28 in.

Henri Matisse, The Pink Studio, 1911. Oil on canvas, 181 X 221 cm.

Sincerity in Art

Bruna Massadas, Studio Model (A Charcoal Drawing a Day Project), 2012.  Charcoal on paper, 14 X 17 inches.

What is my process of making work? Why do I choose this process? And, most importantly, why do I make work? In graduate school, I had the opportunity to experience different approaches to art and see how other artists relate to their work. This exposure stimulated questions about my process.

At first, while in graduate school, I was doing what I thought I was supposed to do: make art with my head. I made artworks as assignments, which others would check on to determine how well I was communicating a specific idea. This mode of art making relied heavily on explanations and research. The truth is I was neither good at those things nor liked making art this way. At the end of my first year of graduate school, I reacted against that. It was now all about the gut. The gut, however, implies a violence that I am not interested in. YES! POWER! CONTROL! AWARENESS! And what now? Do I want art making to be a reaction to something? It was still about the head since it was a reaction to it.

The problem to me was neither the head nor the gut. The problem was I was making art with the same unfulfilling purpose—to build a reputation (as an academic who makes art or a badass who makes art against something). I was more concerned about how others saw me than how I was experiencing the work. 

Lately I have been making a charcoal drawing a day and painting occasionally. No one comes into my studio but flies. My drawings are of things that happen everyday. There is absolutely nothing else to them than what you see. There is so much beauty in that. 

My First Painting Ever

Bruna Massadas, Untitled (Cerritos), 2001. Acrylics on canvas panel, 12 X 9 inches.

During the summer, Cerritos is breezy and the sky is cobalt blue. Many violet agapanthus blossom during this time of year creating a beautiful contrast with the deep green grass that could be found everywhere in the city.

I moved to Cerritos when I was 15. I often walked to Westgate Park in the late afternoons and appreciated the harmony of the man-made landscape. Most summer days, however, I spent hours in my room. There, I drew with my Faber-Castell watercolor pencils while listening to the sound of my fan. From time to time, I painted in the garage while my mother was gardening. This painting, my first painting ever, was made under these circumstances.  

At that time, the act of painting had the clear purpose to kill time—since as a recent immigrant I had very few friends. What I did not expect was to find myself in a meditative and reflective state. Maybe that is why I continued to paint.

When I recently found this painting, I was surprised with its resemblance to the Cerritos summer landscape—the colors and the breezy movement. I was also surprised with the many similarities between this painting and my current paintings—the color palette and the brushstrokes as well as the theme of nature.