Sargent In The Park
This artwork was at my local thrift shop for $35. It is large – measuring 24” x 32”, and nicely framed. I really had no idea where I would hang it, but it spoke to me of the New York City of my childhood. It ended up in our basement stairwell, which actually makes more sense than you might think. The tan walls, black stairs and tunnel-like space suited the artwork, causing a moment’s pause as I head down to the basement.
So, what about this piece made me pause? Really, the picture itself somehow makes you pause. It drags you back into a past world, creating an atmosphere of somber majesty, with an undertone of nervousness. The soaring trees, overwhelming the walkers? The imposing, but obscure, building looming in the background? The gray tones? Or the trees, casting reflections on sidewalks that somehow feel a tad sinister – like skeletal hands stretching across the plane of the artwork? All that, but also no phones in hands, no strollers, or electric scooters or roller blades. There is only feet, and hands and a sense of ages gone by.
A photographer friend suggested that laying a glass framed artwork on the ground and shooting a picture of it from above was a way to avoid the glares and reflections the glass can create. Having done this (success!), I was not optimistic about learning anything, as the artwork has no visible signature or date. But Google Image search had no trouble! The work is a lithograph, dated 1980 by Harold Altman (1923-2003).
While I had no discernible way of knowing, my instincts said the work was of Central Park in New York City, likely in the 1980s. Turns out I was completely correct! Altman was a well-known NYC artist, with many pieces owned by The Whitney, Museum of Modern Art and Brooklyn Museum among others. He is famous for his 1980s lithographs of Central Park, though later he did work in Paris parks as well. While he was a prolific artist, he spent a great deal of time working in lithography. There is a website dedicated to his work and it describes his lithographic process:
“Lithography is a method of printmaking based on the opposition of oil and water. In lithography, a design is drawn with a greasy crayon on a thick slab of polished limestone... It is then fixed — or prevented from spreading — by applying a chemical mixture of gum and nitric acid. The surface of the stone is then thoroughly dampened, since the key principle behind a lithograph is the natural antipathy of grease and water. When ink is rolled over the dampened stone, it attaches itself only to the greasy areas of the design. When a piece of paper is pressed against the stone, the ink on the greasy parts is transferred to it. To create a color lithograph, a separate stone is used for each color and must be printed separately.” (https://www.haroldaltman.com/) I find such trivia fascinating.
While I visited NYC quite a lot in high school and college, with different sisters in very different times in my life, I also spent time there as a young girl. Mom would put me on a train alone – mind you I might have been 10 – to head into Grand Central Station in Manhattan to meet my mother’s college friend HJS. HJS had been widowed after only 8 years of marriage, and lived on the upper west side in a large, stately apartment overlooking Central Park. She would bring her daughter “L” and me to incredible NYC experiences in the 1970s. I recall Hello Dolly with Carol Channing. Art exhibits, including Calder. Dinner at unusual restaurants or friend’s homes. The family had a boxer name Sargent, and the idea of having such a dog in an elevatored building in the heart of the City seemed odd to a suburban girl with a big yard. The dog, however, was lovely, and in fact had been awarded an honor from the City because it defended L from a wild dog attack in Central Park.
The part of this meandering that springs from the artwork is the association of these visits with Central Park. The apartment looked over the park, and L and I would often go out to play nearby, dog in tow. We would scamper around the park’s paved paths, and play in an old metal playground situated beneath the apartment’s window. While the park may have been perfectly safe, I suspect, in mid to late 1970s this might not have been the case. There was a sense of danger, so while the area was lovely, I was always slightly on guard. Knowing their dog had to save the daughter from a crazed dog didn’t help my comfort level. But the lithograph speaks to that childhood sense of awe and majesty, with a serious case of danger lurking like a gray mist.