JOEL LONGENECKER

Cigar Envy, 40" x 30", oil on linen, 2012 - 2013

 

 

 

 

What are you working on right now?

 

 

Since last January 2012, I’ve been working on a bunch of medium sized canvases ranging from 40” x 36” to 54” x 50”.  As I finish some I start others, so I’m now at the point where I’ve got maybe two dozen or so finished paintings. This is the first work I’ve done since moving upstate in 2010 after living in New York for 20 years. I had to put my studio work on hold as we made that transition. When I started working again, I began where I had left off, but it just didn’t feel right.  I went through a period of rejecting and reworking everything.  When things did finally fall into place, I ended up with the densest, most heavily-worked surfaces I’ve ever made.

 

 

 

Can you describe your working routine?

 

 

When I start my day in the studio, I usually have a pretty clear idea about what I need to focus on from the previous day’s work.  It’s usually midmorning before I’m in the studio, and by that time, I’m anxious to get started.  So mornings are generally not my time for serious looking and thinking.  I wait until I’m done working for the day and then I’ll sit down and look things over and plot my next move.  Once I’m into it, I like to keep the momentum going.  Spontaneity is everything, and it’s a struggle to find the path from control to freedom.   I try to get to the point each day where I’m working freely, taking risks in the work, and letting the painting lead me where it wants to go.  When all of these things come together, I’ve had a great day in the studio. 

 

 

 

Tell me about your process, where things begin, how they evolve etc.

 

 

I’m after an organic, generative process where one thing slowly leads to another with each piece resolving itself in it’s own way.  Working like this makes it impossible for me to duplicate what I’ve already done, keeping the process open and alive.  I always start several things at once, but am careful to quickly fold them into the work that is already in progress.  In a sense, my work never “starts” or “stops”, but instead is more like a continuous loop in which things are cycled in and out.  Ultimately, what I want is for the paintings to look like they’ve created themselves, much like a tree, or any other bit of nature, that slowly grew into it’s final form.   

 

 

 

 

 

Can you describe your studio space and how, if at all, that affects your work?


As I mentioned previously, we moved in 2010 and building a studio was part of that project.  My wife is also an artist, so we needed a space that would accommodate both of us. The building is barn-like, with my studio on the ground floor and my wife’s on the second floor.  We were able to design the studios to provide maximum storage and working areas. My studio has a wall of glass on one side, two good walls with high ceilings, and the fourth wall is lined with painting racks. I work in the same spot by the bank of windows every day.  It’s been very different working here compared to working in the city. It’s so quiet, and the feeling of open space and the light is very different.  Strangely, my work has become denser and darker in this setting.


What are you having the most trouble resolving?


Over the years, I’ve made many large paintings.  I like working on a large  scale because it enables me to create an enveloping space.  Whenever I make smaller ones, it seems like I have to work longer and harder to resolve them, which I always find a bit ironic.  Now however, I have the opposite problem. As the surfaces have become denser and the marks smaller and more embedded in the ground, the larger paintings have become more challenging for me to resolve.  On the bigger paintings, the individual marks play a lesser role, especially when interacting with the dense surface, making it more difficult to clarify the structure and space.

 

 

 

 

Do you experiment with different materials a lot or do you prefer to work within certain parameters?

 

 

I like using traditional media; watercolor, pastel, charcoal and especially oil paint. 
I work with these same materials year after year.  I love being able to pull a painting out of my storage racks that I made years ago and think about how it relates to what I’m doing today.  The fact that my materials have remained constant becomes a kind of equalizer, enabling me to see more easily the changes in form, space, light, and color that have happened over the years. 

 

 

What does the future hold for this work?

 

 

In the short term, I’m looking forward to the next step as I bring some larger canvases into the mix and expand upon what I’ve done this year.  And in the long term, I know that it will take what seems like an eternity for me to be able to “see” my own work.  So, it’s too early to tell what my work from this past year will lead to. What I do know is that this is an excruciatingly slow process, one full of contradictory and opposing forces, like the immediacy of the day to day work, juxtaposed with the slow process of gaining insight into it.  It’s kind of like a scroll, unraveling bit by bit, revealing more each day.

 

 

 

 

Magic Mountain, 54" x 50", oil on linen, 2012 - 2013

 

 

 

Is there anything else you would like to add?

 

 

Thank you Valerie for giving me this opportunity to talk about my work.  And thanks for creating this blog which has introduced me to the work of so many great artists!

Here are a few images that relate to what I’ve been thinking about...

Vincent Van Gogh, The Potato Eaters, 1885

 

I love the empathetic relationship that Van Gogh has with his subjects. When I look at a Van Gogh painting, I forget that I’m looking at a painting. 

 

 

Soutine, Hill at Ceret, 1921

 

Soutine’s juggling act of balancing structure and control with total abandon is a constant source of inspiration. I love it when he stops describing things logically and the paint takes on a life of it’s own.

 

 

 

 

Marsden Hartley, Evening Storm, Schoodic Maine No. 2, 1942

 

I love Hartley’s spiritual connection with nature.

 

 

 

 

Philip Guston, Black Sea, 1977

 

I love the way Guston pushes paint around on a surface as if he’s modeling forms out of clay.  I always get the sense that he’s surprised himself by what’s emerged.