HESS BLOG

Thoughts about Art and Painting

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Flashlight in hand, the guard pushes out onto the grounds of the big house. The cold dew from the grass hits his ankles; there hadn't been time to put on his socks. “Damn that crazy old bastard,” he mutters. “Nothin' but trouble since the moment they put him in here.” His mind fills with images of the second-floor guests, round-eyed with fascinated shock, listening to the Old Man's tales of his past sins. Peace had fled the floor with his coming. The first month they'd thought the Old Man could help in the kitchen and use his years of experience, but when his captive audience heard about the pranks he'd pulled as a chef, they all refused to eat. They let him work in the garden, where his dark mind could do less harm. His influence continued to grow, despite efforts to isolate him. His presence invaded the afternoon card games, bringing argument and strife. Seeds of doubt he planted blossomed in their dreams into full-blown, noxious night flowers. His company was inescapable. The guard shines his light on the circular stone reservoir. He shivers at the reflection of a lone star in the surrounding blackness of the garden. Beneath the water's surface, the Old Man's open eyes gaze heavenward. No more secrets escape his open lips. The white body is translucent, as if the dark, cold water could pass through his skin. A large rock rests on his sternum, held tightly by purplish, arthritic fingers that refuse to relinquish their grip on the instrument of his last great act of will. The Night Gardner’s Escape, 1995, oil and egg tempera on canvas, 48 × 64 inches, 4 am in The Hours of the Day series, San Jose Museum of Art [When the Orange County Museum of Art showed my Hours of the Day series in 2000, I was asked by Director Naomi Vine to explain each painting for the catalogue. I refused, but told her I would write fiction instead. The above excerpt is from the catalog] #fscotthess #hoursoftheday #hours #realistpainting #narrativepainting #narrativeart #figurepainting #orangecountymuseumofart #mythpainting #oldmasterpainting #serialpainting #classicalart #artwriting #fictionaboutart #shortfiction #shortstories https://www.instagram.com/p/CeRT53XpnNM/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

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“Arson is suspected in a four-alarm fire that swept through a dwelling in the Prospero Hills area early Saturday morning. Three people were treated for smoke inhalation at St. Mary's Hospital and released. The blaze, which gutted the two-story house at 711 Miranda Drive, began in the basement and quickly spread to the upper floors.” The rose seemed to come alive in the heat. The leaves danced, slowly blackened, and one by one dropped from the stem. The petals lost their heavenly odor along with their color, drooped, then shriveled to a brown bud. In a parody of life, beauty aged and fell in the blink of her eye. At this wasted hour the grip of history lessens. Subverting the Annunciation, the Virgin's house is emptied. Tintoretto's glowing putti devour the material of her life, mocking the illusion of permanence. Their light flickers across blackened beams, joining brighter eddies on the roof to merge into a swirling river that flows against gravity and spews the ashes of existence into the night sky. Power moves within her, up from the unripe womb. For one brief moment she joins in that fresh, terrible beauty, then the heat drives her back off the porch. “It's a miracle,” she whispers. Fire, 1998, oil on canvas, 48 × 64 inches, 3 am in The Hours of the Day series. [When the Orange County Museum of Art showed my Hours of the Day series in 2000, I was asked by Director Naomi Vine to explain each painting for the catalogue. I refused, but told her I would write fiction instead. The above excerpt is from the catalog] #fscotthess #hoursoftheday #hours #realistpainting #narrativepainting #narrativeart #figurepainting #orangecountymuseumofart #mythpainting #oldmasterpainting #serialpainting #classicalart #artwriting #fictionaboutart #shortfiction #shortstories https://www.instagram.com/p/CeOxOLKLf7m/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

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Where am I, Father? I found myself in a simple old Dutch boat, with sails white as clouds. The azurite sky met the smalted horizon, showing a boundless world, north, south, east, west. By mornings I would dance across the umber decks, spear a yellow fish or two, sing songs that only boatmen knew. But always in the afternoon, I would sail my ancient craft madly towards the west, trying to catch the fleeing sun. And always, in despair, I would see that great flaming disk drop into the sea, its last golden ray touching my salt-stained cheeks. Where am I, Father? This blank sky has not even one star by which to steer my boat. I stand on the bow and peer into the charcoal-gray breach. I wait for your hand to rise from the depths and show me the way. No wave or wind disturbs the quiet of this sea. Only my own movements send out circles of tiny waves, a call to you that fades, imperceptibly, to gray. How am I to reach your golden harbor? Where am I, Father? Where are you? On the Roof, 1996, oil on canvas, 48 × 64 inches, 2 am in The Hours of the Day series, San Jose Museum of Art [When the Orange County Museum of Art showed my Hours of the Day series in 2000, I was asked by Director Naomi Vine to explain each painting for the catalogue. I refused, but told her I would write fiction instead. The above excerpt is from the catalog] #fscotthess #hoursoftheday #hours #realistpainting #narrativepainting #narrativeart #figurepainting #orangecountymuseumofart #mythpainting #oldmasterpainting #serialpainting #classicalart #artwriting #fictionaboutart #shortfiction #shortstories https://www.instagram.com/p/CeMRiTbJtoN/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

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The blur of wings, a gritty gust of wind. The daemon hovers over the chasm, an impossible vision glimpsed only by stragglers defeated by the day's trials. Her skin glows, each pore as brilliant as a star. Her silent lips express the undeniable yearning in the boy's heart. Her impassive eyes know realities that we can only dream of. She is beauty and terror so exquisite that we earthbound itch inwardly at the thought of her, aquiver with desire and dread. A swish of displaced air, wood biting through skin. Entering this Villa of Mysteries, our mud-caked shoes are left at the door. We wander darkened hallways, searching for one lighted chamber, the actions of our past a Greek chorus judging each step. No direction will please these singers; all corridors lead towards tragedy. In the face of such pain and madness, all creatures are innocent. Drawn by laughter, we stumble into light. Led forward by leaf-crowned attendants, we plunge belly first into the blood-red bath, to surface exhilarated, intoxicated, renewed. Drunk in our dreams, we laugh in our sleep, relieved to find that it is Aristophanes, not Sophocles, who scripted this hour. The Cleansing, 2000, oil on canvas, 48 × 64 inches , 1 am in The Hours of the Day series [When the Orange County Museum of Art showed my Hours of the Day series in 2000, I was asked by Director Naomi Vine to explain each painting for the catalogue. I refused, but told her I would write fiction instead. The above excerpt is from the catalog] #fscotthess #hoursoftheday #hours #realistpainting #narrativepainting #narrativeart #figurepainting #orangecountymuseumofart #mythpainting #oldmasterpainting #serialpainting #classicalart #artwriting #fictionaboutart #shortfiction #shortstories https://www.instagram.com/p/CeJpbFSpaC6/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

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Outside, men with a single thought in mind, climbing the wooden steps, thick soles pounding out staccato rhythms. Moths and thin-winged insects slam into the lamp's bulb in a brief attempt to solve the mystery of the light that splits their darkness. Inside, the dim figures are immersed in layers of grimy resin. Squatting, with an imp's eyes, the younger man is an artist with the muddied stick. He whacks pitilessly at the chained form, driven by a lust to master what the other knows. The Old Man's leaden skin, buckled and pulled across the chalky mass of his bones, perfectly registers every stroke of a life lived. Red glows thinly across the expanse of his flesh and within its crevices. Slowly, inexorably, Ribera's Ixion spins out his human story, trapped in these thin, blackened layers, a fly in amber. The Red Door, 1994, oil on canvas, 48 × 64 inches, Midnight in the Hours of the Day series. [When the Orange County Museum of Art showed my Hours of the Day series in 2000, I was asked by Director Naomi Vine to explain each painting for the catalogue. I refused, but told her I would write fiction instead. The above excerpt is from the catalog] #fscotthess #hoursoftheday #hours #realistpainting #narrativepainting #narrativeart #figurepainting #orangecountymuseumofart #mythpainting #oldmasterpainting #serialpainting #classicalart #artwriting #fictionaboutart #shortfiction #shortstories https://www.instagram.com/p/CeHBqN4JVx7/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

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This room - four walls, ceiling, floor - tolerates no rational assault. Thought cannot penetrate the gridded windows, this order of stripes and rectangles. Brain patterns transcribe lines, intersect corners, and transverse the dimly lit planes, repeating formulas of primitive geometry. Sleep is an unattainable, distant necessity. The peaceful breathing of a bedmate seems shrill, a bugle call to act on unsolvable problems. Fatigue finally pushes the mind towards a realm of neither sleep nor wakefulness, where an unseen hand reaches out to touch the unformed clay. Follow the fish that floats there near the ceiling, out the window, past the birch you felled as a child. Oh, Boatman, beware! A wave of roses swamps your craft and you soar upon their fragrance, leaving behind empty paint cans, laundry baskets, grass that needs mowing. Over the ravine at your feet that deepens with each crack of thunder, past the Old Man chained to the wheel, glimpsed in a flash of light, caught like Bosch in a whirlwind, you rise above the rooftops, skim over the trees, join an encyclopedia of objects and ideas swirling into unspeakable combinations. Spiraling up towards the white light, you are stripped of your flesh until all consciousness is held in one lone atom, propelled into the void, a glittering star pondered by the sleepless below. The Sleep of Trees, 2000, oil on canvas, 48 × 64 inches, 11 pm in The Hours of the Day series. [When the Orange County Museum of Art showed my Hours of the Day series in 2000, I was asked by Director Naomi Vine to explain each painting for the catalogue. I refused, but told her I would write fiction instead. The above excerpt is from the catalog] #fscotthess #hoursoftheday #hours #realistpainting #narrativepainting #narrativeart #figurepainting #orangecountymuseumofart #mythpainting #oldmasterpainting #serialpainting #classicalart #artwriting #fictionaboutart #shortfiction #shortstories https://www.instagram.com/p/CeEV4LTlCE8/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

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This special evening they return to the old port, arm in arm, strolling past nightclubs and seaside restaurants. Safe at home in their beds, the children are as far from their thoughts as they allow them to be. Having dined and quietly danced, they pause at the entrance to their hotel. “Do you care for a drink at the Sea Breeze?” he asks, knowing she won't. She hesitates. “No, my feet hurt. Let's go up.” A bellboy, with the unlikely name of Osias Beert, delivers the delicacies secretly ordered earlier in the day. Pleased, she sips champagne while he tilts an oyster up to his lips. The room is quaint, comfortable, a Vermeer at night. Yellow lamplight envelops the undulating black and white forms, still in evening dress, trying to tip the scales of love back many years. They embrace, poised somewhere between the passion of youth and the companionship of old age. The room's too warm, he thinks, sweating on the red blanket. He is distracted by the sound of a ship's horn and the little painting of a naked man in a small boat. He struggles to regain his focus, the creaking bed answering the call from the sea. “Sorry,” he says after a while, rolling onto his side. “No bother,” she smiles tipsily, holding up his glass. “Have some more champagne.” Champagne, 1997, oil on canvas, 48 × 64 inches, 10 pm in The Hours of the Day series. [When the Orange County Museum of Art showed my Hours of the Day series in 2000, I was asked by Director Naomi Vine to explain each painting for the catalogue. I refused, but told her I would write fiction instead. The above excerpt is from the catalog] #fscotthess #hoursoftheday #hours #realistpainting #narrativepainting #narrativeart #figurepainting #orangecountymuseumofart #mythpainting #oldmasterpainting #serialpainting #classicalart #artwriting #fictionaboutart #shortfiction #shortstories https://www.instagram.com/p/CeBtNStLBc4/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

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The tyranny of red begins. Slippery blue silk, the thin covering of the civilized, slides to the floor. Naked bodies press forward, bent to their purpose - no easy feat for one whose prime hours passed in heated toil, rewarded only by his own sweat. Does one retire at the end of the day to a dark, empty room? Not he. Knowing all days end at night, he weighs the deferred promises of a life well-lived against the reality of living well: he takes the lobster and melted butter. It is a satisfying theft. In this moral landscape, black-and-white under the full moon, he runs with the wolves. Shadowy forms slink through the city, preying on the unsuspecting, only to discover that they devour their own innocence. Dragging the carcass back to the den, they ravage with abandon, without any clue to the magnitude of what is lost. The pack feeds and breeds, its memory a slate wiped clean. In the well-lit room, the Old Man gathers his strength for a second go. There is no urgency now, except the knowledge that the minutes in his day are diminishing to a finite point. Pushing aside the remains of the feast, he initiates a slower dance, drowned in wine and congealing butter. Each anatomical hollow and rise is illuminated by light reflected off the red blanket. Lifting himself up on his arms, he looks at the woman beneath him. Sweat, or a tear, rolls off his cheek and falls, with a sizzle, to her breast. Stolen Feast, 1999, oil on canvas, 48 × 64 inches , 9 pm in The Hours of the Day series. [When the Orange County Museum of Art showed my Hours of the Day series in 2000, I was asked by Director Naomi Vine to explain each painting for the catalogue. I refused, but told her I would write fiction instead. The above excerpt is from the catalog] #fscotthess #hoursoftheday #hours #realistpainting #narrativepainting #narrativeart #figurepainting #orangecountymuseumofart #mythpainting #oldmasterpainting #serialpainting #classicalart #artwriting #fictionaboutart #shortfiction #shortstories https://www.instagram.com/p/Cd_QZghJK78/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

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Warm water rinses the greasy soil of nostalgia from her skin. Her shift over, her muscles sink into the rhythmic movement of the waves lapping at her sides, waiting. Soon she hears the crackle of dry vegetation underfoot as the neighbor boys approach through the stiff reeds and the nightly vigil begins. Theirs is not the lecherous glint of the old cook, her mother's “friend,” seeking to exercise his right as her protector. These are as innocent gazes as one can expect in this day, full of joy and secret marveling. They look inward, following the circuitous route of the waterline on her flesh, seeking the dark crevice through which their mothers bore them. She meets the viewers’ gaze, unashamed, her mind cool as a breeze through the open window. Tomorrow, her bath water will inundate the valley, washing centuries of dust and all living things down to the sea. No ancient odalisque, hung safely on the wall, she is a wolf, Iocasta with filed teeth. The circular, incestual surprises of history hold no sway over her, but spiral down the drain with fried fish fat and the lustful thoughts of little boys. The Open Window, 1996, oil on canvas, 48 × 64 inches, 8 pm in The Hours of the Day series. [When the Orange County Museum of Art showed my Hours of the Day series in 2000, I was asked by Director Naomi Vine to explain each painting for the catalogue. I refused, but told her I would write fiction instead. The above excerpt is from the catalog] #fscotthess #hoursoftheday #hours #realistpainting #narrativepainting #narrativeart #figurepainting #orangecountymuseumofart #mythpainting #oldmasterpainting #serialpainting #classicalart #artwriting #fictionaboutart #shortfiction #shortstories https://www.instagram.com/p/Cd8mEJ7rxEf/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

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Tell me, did Agamemnon, flushed with a hunter's adrenaline, have even the tiniest inkling that his few words of celebration, upon sending an arrow directly through a deer's heart, could lead to such devastating ends? The cycles of sacrifice, murder, and revenge echo down through the centuries long after the immortal goddess, slighted by his manly exuberance, has lost all relevancy. Called by some “magic,” the hour after sunset bathes all acts in its warm light and purple shadows, shrouding clarity, seducing judgment. Birds, insects, all are quiet but for the braying of a distant hound. Day dissolves imperceptibly into night. The certain and proper course envisioned now will appear foreign in the light of dawn. A boundary is crossed, a fence-line broken. Our modern heroes seal their fate with this act of trespass. Their steps will lead to a distant battlefield, a vain search for what is lost, and Clytemnestra'a vengeful blade. Blood circulates in one direction. There is no return path through the fence. And what of poor, sacrificial Iphigenia? Some say the goddess substituted a hind for her during the purifying bath, spirited her safely away, and that those engaged in the ritual failed to notice. Tell me, could the blood of a deer, spilt upon a stone, calm the ocean winds, soothe an angry god, and occasion such hatred from a grieving mother? Through the Fence, 1999, oil on canvas, 48 × 64 inches, 7 pm in The Hours of the Day series. [When the Orange County Museum of Art showed my Hours of the Day series in 2000, I was asked by Director Naomi Vine to explain each painting for the catalogue. I refused, but told her I would write fiction instead. The above excerpt is from the catalog] #fscotthess #hoursoftheday #hours #realistpainting #narrativepainting #narrativeart #figurepainting #orangecountymuseumofart #mythpainting #oldmasterpainting #serialpainting #classicalart #artwriting #fictionaboutart #shortfiction #shortstories https://www.instagram.com/p/Cd6IQWgJvl6/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

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As the sun dresses for evening, others follow suit. Safe behind their silks, some businessmen prefer these hours. Momentarily played out, our bow-tied everyman waits to perform upon request. He contemplates nothing and smiles at the perfect blankness of his mind. Acrid smoke seasons the voices of women congregating near the kitchen below. Their tongues skewer friends not present, baste their husbands, and weave spells through the day's events. Oblivious to all, the Old Man performs his ritual dance. The rapid slicing of his knife imitates the helpless clatter of crab legs on stainless steel, as if a final frenzy of activity could obviate one's fate on this cold countertop. He sends a shower of gray shrimp toward their flame-colored transformation. With the clang of a bell, the oven relinquishes a big carp, its open mouth forever on the verge of expressing the river's secrets. The new girl will learn them in time, but this evening she simply focuses on the efficient delivery of the heavy platter. The Reception, 1996, egg tempera and oil on canvas, 48 × 64 inches, 6 pm in The Hours of the Day series. [When the Orange County Museum of Art showed my Hours of the Day series in 2000, I was asked by Director Naomi Vine to explain each painting for the catalogue. I refused, but told her I would write fiction instead. The above excerpt is from the catalog] #fscotthess #hoursoftheday #hours #realistpainting #narrativepainting #narrativeart #figurepainting #orangecountymuseumofart #mythpainting #oldmasterpainting #serialpainting #classicalart #artwriting #fictionaboutart #shortfiction #shortstories https://www.instagram.com/p/Cd32u2qPhVu/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

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The wind shifts in the late afternoon, blowing the stagnant city air out to sea. The lowering sun filters through the inland dust, setting a frame of gold around the hill. In this privileged light the women appear as sanctified refugees from a Fra Angelico or a Pontormo. Each gesture of a hand, kiss upon a cheek, impresses with unparalleled grace into the wet plaster behind the drowsy girl's eyes. Mother, your voice rises, drops, is joined by others. You sing of food, of friends. A solo vocalist's sorrowful chant becomes the mournful melody of all. Soothing, comforting, the chorus absorbs pain and discharges it through song. There are strains about husbands, these men, these fathers; songs about clothing, whispers about money. There is laughter. The bubbling flow exposes sources, washes opinions, floods disagreement. There is no riverbed: water streams through the air along unseen channels, held aloft by the power of voices. You sing of homes, whisper of children. This song is why you gather. This network of canals soars above my head; warm droplets fall upon my thirsty face, your tears of sorrow, tears of joy. I dream I'm sleeping, Mother, in your arms, floating along your river in the sky. Mothers on the Mount, 1999, oil on canvas, 48 × 64 inches, 5 pm in The Hours of the Day series. [When the Orange County Museum of Art showed my Hours of the Day series in 2000, I was asked by Director Naomi Vine to explain each painting for the catalogue. I refused, but told her I would write fiction instead. The above excerpt is from the catalog] #fscotthess #hoursoftheday #hours #realistpainting #narrativepainting #narrativeart #figurepainting #orangecountymuseumofart #mythpainting #oldmasterpainting #serialpainting #classicalart #artwriting #fictionaboutart #shortfiction #shortstories https://www.instagram.com/p/Cd0592dF0BU/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

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The sound of the shattering teacup brings only a brief dip in the music's tempo, a heartbeat's acknowledgment of more fragments added to the heap of shards that mark human lives past. The endless beat of hand against skin is made bearable by the flight of the fiddler's bow, a melody transported from a more ancient people. Entranced, he encourages their thoughts to find meaning in the comfortable warmth of his palette. The girl is quick at her task, thanks to summers at her family's business. Hoping to erase her Great Aunt Adelaide's embarrassment, she hurriedly pushes the viscous remnants of torte and tea into a small mound, ignoring her cousin's offer of a thin paper napkin. ‘What help is that against the infirmity of old age?’ she thinks. “Oh, Adelaide,” clucks her older sister. “Always the show-off.” Shooting a sidelong glance at an older gentleman in a striped tie, she whispers louder than she should, “You know he'll never give a damn and you've only managed to ruin a pair of brand new shoes!” Performance, 1997, oil on canvas, 48 × 64 inches, 4 pm in The Hours of the Day series., San Jose Museum of Art. [When the Orange County Museum of Art showed my Hours of the Day series in 2000, I was asked by Director Naomi Vine to explain each painting for the catalogue. I refused, but told her I would write fiction instead. The above excerpt is from the catalog] #fscotthess #hoursoftheday #hours #realistpainting #narrativepainting #narrativeart #figurepainting #orangecountymuseumofart #mythpainting #oldmasterpainting #serialpainting #classicalart #artwriting #fictionaboutart #shortfiction #shortstories https://www.instagram.com/p/CdyU-RtJeTp/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

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What provisions, in the plans of the Architect, were meant to preserve his building? Not the weak buttress presented to his confused children. What do they know of love? His flight before the tremors that shook that knowledge loose, left brother and sister cowering in the shadow of his failure. Thirty years later, six hundred years ago, Giotto plasters his chapel with tales simply told, rich color soaking permanently into wet mud. A new naturalism reigns. Not gods, but real people are his models, with emotions that shatter conventions in the church. At three, the trinket hawkers, guided hordes, and gaping pilgrims are driven from the temple. They forget the boy in the nave, who pisses on the walls to make the colors live. The release is such glorious sacrilege. Dust-covered images, a cast of human characters long buried, are reborn in his golden stream. The anguished cries of gray old men turn joyous and reverberate until columns shake, vaulting crumbles, the dome cracks. The wooden door rumbles open, a large figure fills the frame, then steps inside. Caught in the apse, a shaft of light illuminating his shame, the boy is hauled down the aisle and thrust, blinking, into the afternoon sun. The Pissing Boy, 1998, oil on canvas, 48 × 64 inches, 3 pm in The Hours of the Day series. I apologize for the censorship. This piece had me banned for a week in the past. Zuckerberg cares more about nipples and penises than stopping disinformation or protecting democracy. [When the Orange County Museum of Art showed my Hours of the Day series in 2000, I was asked by Director Naomi Vine to explain each painting for the catalogue. I refused, but told her I would write fiction instead. The above excerpt is from the catalog] #fscotthess #hoursoftheday #hours #realistpainting #narrativepainting #narrativeart #figurepainting #orangecountymuseumofart #mythpainting #oldmasterpainting #serialpainting #classicalart #artwriting #fictionaboutart #shortfiction #shortstories https://www.instagram.com/p/CdvyqkMpOgX/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

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His pickled ambitions, the Spanish heat, and salami-scented gas prime the slow blood of the Scholar's drowsy mind. The pulsing drone of cicadas and the steady murmur of water from the black pipe send ripples into the recesses of his memory. Before Goya, before Velasquez, there were the older boy's cunning and distant eyes. Remaining willfully blank in the face of all understanding, they bred a thrilling terror in his more cautious soul. Years later, returning from his studies abroad, he searched out his childhood friend. Coils of barbed-wire now protected society from those eyes, but the Scholar found in them a desire to be loved that left him confused, unsure of their relationship. Throughout the allotted hour, the Scholar hoped in vain to discover that this change was an act, another cunning ruse. He became colder and colder, making a hasty retreat after a promise to visit again. With a wry smile, he recalled his young friend squatting before a puddle in which he'd set a toy sailboat ablaze. He remembered him rocking back and forth, chanting wildly to himself, “I'm free, now I'm free. I'm free, now I'm free.” The Sleeping Scholar, 1997, oil on canvas, 48 × 64 inches, 2 pm in The Hours of the Day series. [When the Orange County Museum of Art showed my Hours of the Day series in 2000, I was asked by Director Naomi Vine to explain each painting for the catalogue. I refused, but told her I would write fiction instead. The above excerpt is from the catalog] #fscotthess #hoursoftheday #hours #realistpainting #narrativepainting #narrativeart #figurepainting #orangecountymuseumofart #mythpainting #oldmasterpainting #serialpainting #classicalart #artwriting #fictionaboutart #shortfiction #shortstories https://www.instagram.com/p/CdtIM7OrApb/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

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Quick-grown children find in our youthful tragedies an easy laugh, lessons of the dull. Family history is consumed with the same intensity as beef upon their plate… a couple half-hearted nibbles, feed the rest to the dogs. In a thousand years they will build their own table, pull antique china down from the attic, and cook recipes of long dead relations. Like the feast just finished, it will lack the taste of memory. What drunken wisdom plays through Silenus' fingers, improper chords struck upon a child's lyre? A lonely ass, long abandoned by his master, his veins change wine to vinegar. That sour eye casts for fresh engagements, anything to shake the blandness of stupefied centuries. The plunk-plink-plunk of his prophetic tune folds one hour into another, turning beginnings into ends. She glides across the room, triumphant over wisdom, the mystery of purity her shield. Delighting new-born and world-weary alike, generosity swirls about her, orange blossoms falling into our cupped hands. The season is short, her victory fleeting, but years later the fragrance remains when I bury my face in my palms and weep. Initiation, 1999, oil on canvas, 48 × 64 inches, 1 pm in The Hours of the Day series. [When the Orange County Museum of Art showed my Hours of the Day series in 2000, I was asked by Director Naomi Vine to explain each painting for the catalogue. I refused, but told her I would write fiction instead. The above excerpt is from the catalog] #fscotthess #hoursoftheday #hours #realistpainting #narrativepainting #narrativeart #figurepainting #orangecountymuseumofart #mythpainting #oldmasterpainting #serialpainting #classicalart #artwriting #fictionaboutart #shortfiction #shortstories https://www.instagram.com/p/Cdqk1m8Ljgv/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

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The linen backdrop, the paint-splattered stage - all simple props for the midget pierrot to act out mid-day amusements: feats that defy explanation, illusions even in the mind of the performer. Oranges meant to hover like mysterious orbs suspend only belief as they plop relentlessly to earth. The cruel sun wrings rivers of patience from the clown's audience, trapped in the close of the morning like Watteau's conversing noblemen in silks made of lead. The Old Man said these are “savage oranges,” translating crudely from the French, but the next generation's logic is clouded by its appetite. Peeling back the perfect orange skin, the son fills his lungs with the aroma of citrus, but this is no perfect fruit from a Paris market. He bites into its flesh. The Old Man's familiar chortle comes over his shoulder: “Pucker-up, Sonny, and don't say I didn't warn you!” L’Orange Sauvage, 1995, oil on canvas, 48 × 64 inches, Noon in The Hours of the Day series. [When the Orange County Museum of Art showed my Hours of the Day series in 2000, I was asked by Director Naomi Vine to explain each painting for the catalogue. I refused, but told her I would write fiction instead. The above excerpt is from the catalog] #fscotthess #hoursoftheday #hours #realistpainting #narrativepainting #narrativeart #figurepainting #orangecountymuseumofart #mythpainting #oldmasterpainting #serialpainting #classicalart #artwriting #fictionaboutart #shortfiction #shortstories https://www.instagram.com/p/CdoCQUPpac6/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=