Home
Artists
Search
Recent
Random
Posts
DMs
Tags
Random
Importer
Import
FAQ
Account
Register
Favorites
Login
The Maestro (Patreon)
Published:
2018-10-21 23:24:42
Imported:
2023-01
Content
Ernie Barnes is probably my favorite American artist. He worked primarily during the '60s and '70s (though kept working until he passed away in '09).
He's best known for his lively, detailed, movement-fueled scenes depicting African-American culture during his youth and upbringing (he was born in '38). The scenes are humble ones, strewn with elongated figures — dozens of people — expressing an immutable sense of passion. A quick Google search for "Sugar Shack" will give you an idea of the style the guy was most known for. Googling his name however, will lead you down a rabbit hole of somber, poignant revelry. Fuck Jim Crow.
But this one. It's called, "The Maestro." A single person, standing in a spartan room. It's different from his other works, which force you to spend some time studying the scene to pick out all the details, the clues. Stretched upwards as if something incredible is about to come down. You can't see his eyes: they're probably closed, but they could be wide-open. That strict, noble stance. Rigid and intentional.
The wall is the deepest color of green. The window? What's outside? A fine view, but maybe a field, like any other. I've always got the feeling it was a farmhouse, somewhere in the South, in a town that nobody's ever heard of. This is his rare private time, but his family is out the door for just a little while.
And that radio. Anachronistic, but damn the simple wonder of it. I remember my grandfather telling me about a radio like that that he had when he was growing up in the '30s and '40s, in a tiny town in Texas that, likewise, nobody's ever heard of. That was where the news came from. That's where you had the fireside chats with President Roosevelt. That's were Orson Welles waged his War of the Worlds. That's where imagination came from, and possibility, and information, and comfort, and the idea that there was something outside of your tiny town; an inconsequential place that nobody had ever heard of.
Dreams. Aspirations. The idea that you can be something magnificent. Even if it's just for a moment, and even if it's just for an audience of yourself and an apathetic little box that broadcasts noises.
He's best known for his lively, detailed, movement-fueled scenes depicting African-American culture during his youth and upbringing (he was born in '38). The scenes are humble ones, strewn with elongated figures — dozens of people — expressing an immutable sense of passion. A quick Google search for "Sugar Shack" will give you an idea of the style the guy was most known for. Googling his name however, will lead you down a rabbit hole of somber, poignant revelry. Fuck Jim Crow.
But this one. It's called, "The Maestro." A single person, standing in a spartan room. It's different from his other works, which force you to spend some time studying the scene to pick out all the details, the clues. Stretched upwards as if something incredible is about to come down. You can't see his eyes: they're probably closed, but they could be wide-open. That strict, noble stance. Rigid and intentional.
The wall is the deepest color of green. The window? What's outside? A fine view, but maybe a field, like any other. I've always got the feeling it was a farmhouse, somewhere in the South, in a town that nobody's ever heard of. This is his rare private time, but his family is out the door for just a little while.
And that radio. Anachronistic, but damn the simple wonder of it. I remember my grandfather telling me about a radio like that that he had when he was growing up in the '30s and '40s, in a tiny town in Texas that, likewise, nobody's ever heard of. That was where the news came from. That's where you had the fireside chats with President Roosevelt. That's were Orson Welles waged his War of the Worlds. That's where imagination came from, and possibility, and information, and comfort, and the idea that there was something outside of your tiny town; an inconsequential place that nobody had ever heard of.
Dreams. Aspirations. The idea that you can be something magnificent. Even if it's just for a moment, and even if it's just for an audience of yourself and an apathetic little box that broadcasts noises.
Files
