I know nothing about art or photography. Nothing. Can't tell a Rauschenberg from a Rosenquist; a Diane Arbus from an Airbus. I do, though, have some favorite images that I store in my mind and, when I have the money and the wall space, in my home or office. Of course, most of these images have a connection to aviation.
I subscribe to a very personal definition of art. I feel that any image, book or song that does not wear out its welcome, is art. If I don't tire of it, if I find new things to see, hear or feel, then it is art to me. No classes in art history, music appreciation or creative writing have ever graced my course list. I am an artistic dunce.
That said, I defy you to look at some of the framed images in my life and come away with any emotion other than awe, any feeling other than a whistle of appreciation. Though my tastes have changed over decades of flying, the central pleasures are still hanging there for you and me to see.
I'll start with a pencil drawing made in 1973. The artist was the girlfriend of a friend of mine. The picture is of a Beechcraft Musketeer, poised for landing. The drawing was made from several photographs taken by the boyfriend. He and I had flown to a small field in Missouri to photograph my new (to me) Musketeer. As I did touch-and-goes, my friend snapped away furiously on a single-lens reflex camera that was popular with anybody in the military back then. We all had Japanese cameras.
Since I did not yet know how to land the Musketeer and was deep into experiments as to the best technique, the drawing depicts an airplane inches above the ground in an absolutely flat attitude. Apparently flare was not part of the experiment. I do remember several rough landings, taxiing back to pick up the patient photographer and the subsequent celebration over the photographs when they came back from the developer (remember?).
When the picture was drawn, I framed it at a do-it-yourself shop. This drawing has been in my line of sight for over 30 years and it still brings me pleasure. It was my first airplane and my first real picture of my first real airplane. You can see the young pilot's face and even his moustache. Some subsequent photo shoots of subsequent airplanes were less successful technically but still gave great pleasure. I've got an air-to-air shot of a Cessna P210 I had for many years. The photograph is slightly out of focus, so I never enlarged it or framed it, but it has scuttled across my desk at work for some 25 years. It is here right now.
I got to thinking about airplane pictures when I visited John Sanchez at the Dorsch Gallery in Miami recently. John had a show called "Take Off" opening in March and I had been intrigued by a picture of a painting of his featuring a nose-on view of a 727. On a Sunday afternoon my wife and I negotiated some of Miami's lesser-traveled streets to find the gallery stashed among warehouses and vacant lots. Sanchez is an artist in residence and this means exactly what it says: He lives above his studio with a set of stairs leading from the painting space to the sleeping space. An electrical cup heater and some cans of soup gave us an inkling about how John eats while he paints after a long day working elsewhere as a picture framer.
Hanging in his workspace were some arresting images. There was a large picture of a 737 at the gate; jetway still attached, looking pensive and expectant, almost impatient to fly. Another huge oil was the one I'd seen on his website, that Boeing, in for maintenance, resting in the harsh light bathing the hangar. The bright yellow and orange logo colors of the plane contrasted with the white glare of the fuselage. The dark background of the hangar bespoke some heavy maintenance, a C check maybe. I got the sense of an animal in a cage, submitting to necessary repairs, eager to be back on the line or out on the savannah, but grateful for the rest nonetheless.
Several smaller oils were hung on his studio walls. These were silhouettes of DC-8s and 747-400s made alive by the perspective and the paint. The paintings are not over burdened with photorealism. I especially liked the view of a 747's front half, framed by the winglets to the right, the nose to the left and those huge engines dangling from the wing almost boasting of the power necessary to lift such a heavy object and its human freight into the sky.
Littered about his painting space were Sporty's catalogs, The Private Pilot, How to Be a Pilot, and Ask the Pilot. John's interest in aviation is not confined to the canvas. John's father was a DC-3 pilot in Cuba before he escaped with his family to New Jersey in the 1960s. "I have a favorite picture of my father, taken during the good times. He's sitting in what I think is a Cub. My love of flying comes from him." So does his art. His father drew constantly.
John paints from pictures he takes at airports around Miami. "This cargo DC-8, I took the pictures at night. I drove almost right up to the airplane, parked and stuck my lens through the fence. The security guy went right by me, I was almost begging him to question me." As a Chet Baker arrangement drifted out of his Apple speakers, John talked about saving money to take flying lessons, about his application to the Art Institute of Chicago and about being a 32-year-old single man living in this part of Miami. "It's pretty safe, I think," he said while I turned over a copy of What Art Is: The Esthetic Theory of Ayn Rand.
