The Road That Connects

Skowhegan Through Time


When Co-Director Sarah Workneh began working at Skowhegan, the first thing she did was go through the school’s institutional archives. As the school approaches its 75th anniversary, getting a richer understanding of its past has never been more important to its future. 


Though Skowhegan hosts an impressive amount of archival material—decades of monitor assignments, fresco supply orders, photos of participants on the lake, and of course, thousands of lectures—this material only encompasses the institutional narrative of the school. In 2016, we began soliciting alumni to speak about their own unique Skowhegan experiences. The selection below are mostly from individuals who have had space to reflect on their summer, and the takeaways are sometimes in contrast or concert with the Dear Skowhegan letters we ask for each year, that are often still awash in the summer afterglow. 


Explore the decades below.


Suzanne Hodes

With Bill Cummings support, I spent two challenging summers (1957‚ 1958) at Skowhegan. What an experience it was to eat, drink, work, and interact with other artists. Here, I could totally immerse myself in drawing, painting and supportive critiques. When I was a student at Skowhegan in the summer of 1958, there were many émigré artists as teachers, including George Grosz and Max Weber. Mr. Grosz always proclaimed the importance of the line and liked to make small line sketches in my sketchbook. In class, he spoke of the large triptych drawing “Metropolis” by Otto Dix, which is one of the strongest anti-war images ever created.



Will Brown


Ken Rush


I was 19 years old, newly married, and my wife, Martha, and I went to Skowhegan directly from our brief honeymoon. My painting studio was a small stall which faced out on the lawn below the barn. It was the first time in my life that I was able to paint full time without the interruption of some sort of school structure. It was a freedom that I have waited almost 50 years to be able to fully enjoy again.

While I kept up my studio practice during my 43 year art teaching career, my thoughts always go back to those brilliant summer days in Maine. Special moments that come to mind include the weekly visits by Jacob Lawrence. He had a gift for pushing me through a few gentle comments. He was also the first person of color I ever had as a mentor—something which seems inexplicable today, but at the time opened me to an entirely new view of the world.


Robert Flynt


Judith Amdur

In 1973, the painting professors were Janet Fish, Alex Katz and Paul Resika. Alex Katz told me to “paint the light, not the form.”  His words helped me to paint my very first landscape. I have never forgotten that phrase, even after all these years.



Karen Yank

Agnes Martin and I met during our Skowhegan summer. We formed our friendship over swimming, of all things. She enjoyed watching my dedication and focus as I swam back and forth from the Skowhegan beach to the buoy each day, passing her cottage with each lap. Agnes was once a competitive swimmer and I think she was continuing her mental exercises through watching me swim.

The single most important tool she taught us that summer was to meditate before ever working on your art: with a quiet mind true inspiration can be allowed in. She believed this to be the most important tool in making art. Once it is achieved other problems such as showing, galleries, and finances will all fall into place on their own without the artist’s meddling. As Agnes always reminded me, “Karen, you are an unfolding flower.”

One of Agnes’ lines of advice that became famous that summer was, “If you can not stop thinking about going to the beach while working, you must take time off and go to the beach. Deal with your distraction and then you will be able to work in your studio once again.”

Needless to say, the beach was a very popular place that summer!

Agnes Martin was a wise soul and a generous knowledgeable teacher. She showed all of us how to be content with the smallest of life’s pleasures and to be present in every moment.


Gregory Coates

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Deborah Wasserman

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I shot a video of myself called: Things Came (and will) Disappear.

My acceptance to Skowhegan in 1997 came at the right time, just a few weeks after a very meaningful relationship in my life ended. Leaving New York City for Maine to be in the company of other artists, focus on expression, creation, art, and dialogue was my life-saving grace. Never before did I feel so nurtured, respected, and encouraged to make art. It allowed me to envision myself moving forward, fueled by new ideas, inspirations, new friends, and new beginnings.

I took long walks and marveled in the solitude and quietude of nature. The trees swaying in the light wind, the reflection of the sun in water ripples, and the intensity of colors and smells stood in strong contrast to the windowless live/work loft space I then inhabited in Long Island City.

There was a particular spot, not too far from the studios, where the landscape was perfectly orchestrated: trees in the background, a field with honey colored hay and in the middle a road. The path extending into the horizon drew my attention most than all. It made me think of a journey, our long journey in life, extending all the way into the far horizon. Wide at the beginning and narrow at the end. Where does it take us, this journey?

Exploring the landscape and how I experienced it in my body, I brought my camera and tripod and started filming. I moved across the field in all directions, utilizing the path: north to south, west to east and vice-versa while stepping in and out of the frame. I was riding a bike, carrying suitcases, running forward and backwards, dressed on a white gown. I was interested in the image of a woman alone in nature. I wanted to illustrate how ‘she’ experiences her journey.

When I edited the footage I overlapped the images and faded them in and out before they reached the border of the frame. I was interested in creating a feeling of temporality and fragility as if the images evaporate into nothing.


Marjan Laaper


JD Beltran


A photo-collage of my Skowhegan studio, which I converted into an 18th Century style sitting room, with deep blue walls, a red floor, a satin-covered divan, and velvet, gold-tasseled pillows. I had Skowpeople come in to “sit” for their photo portrait. My photo-collage includes a photo of the studio itself, and Rick Lowe, Janine Antoni, Kerry James Marshall, Glenn Ligon, Joyce Kozloff, and Vito Acconci sitting for their portraits, along with one of me and my fellow-resident Will Rogan.

I made lifelong friends at Skowhegan; it was one of the most memorable summers of my life. It began an incredibly fruitful and inspiring new chapter of thinking about how I made art.


Anthony Campuzano


I fell deeply in love and I developed my studio practice during my summer at Skowhegan in 2000. The love didn’t last, but I often say I learned how to be an artist during my summer at Skowhegan. I unfolded my things and pinned my inspirations up on the wall of my studio with the big windows in Upper Barn. I learned so much taking walks, thinking, opening up, listening to others, and being so in love.

I constantly am inspired and challenged in my work by those I met that summer. I use the lessons I learned there everyday in my studio, recalling them when I am in dialogue with my ideas and trying to figure out how to articulate the ways, needs, and means to go forward (and look back). It was the best summer of my life.


Amy Pryor



Betsy Alwin

The Saturday morning critiques were one of my favorite things. More than just seeing what people were doing, they were a way to discuss studio thought processes and share discoveries. I remember walking in the afternoon light around to different studios as a group and feeling so connected, so in the present moment. It was such a generous time.



Melissa Meyer


Hong Zhang

My biggest challenge was making my first outdoor installation using nontraditional materials. I went on a “dumpster trip” with a group of artists and found an old children’s school desk. I let it sit in my studio for a while because I did not know what to do with it. One day while walking, I saw fallen branches in the woods and discovered a green lawn behind Bernarda Shahn’s studio. I was inspired by their beauty and shared my idea of creating an outdoor installation with resident faculty Nari Ward during a studio visit. He encouraged me to pursue creating the installation even though I had never done one before. I spent one month collecting the fallen branches from the forest and using a little wagon to transport them back to the lawn behind Bernarda’s studio. A week before the residency ended, I invited my peers and faculty to see the finished work and welcomed their comments, including Bernarda who came near the end of the residency.

Skowhegan residency provided me with a time and space to think and work outside my comfort zone and challenged me to take risks and grew as a professional artist.  


Elena Bajo

How’s life treating you?  Medium: Painting collage Materials: Acrylic and paper on found canvas Year: 2006 Skowhegan, Maine, US

How’s life treating you?
Medium: Painting collage
Materials: Acrylic and paper on found canvas
Year: 2006
Skowhegan, Maine, US


Ester Partegás

I loved to walk the road that connects the cabins to the main Campus. I loved doing that walk alone and with people, I loved it in daylight and in the dark at night. There was something transformative about it—a daily ritual that reminded me that we were in the middle of the woods, and it always felt magical!

We had a few participants that were always ready to dress up and start a dancing party anywhere. They often showed up in my cabin in their best improvised costumes. They would come, put on music, dance, have a quick drink, and leave. I loved those spontaneous visits!

It probably was their warm up for bigger, more secretive or more exciting parties somewhere else.



Lindsay Preston Zappas

The instant openness and care that the community has for each other at Skowhegan is a lesson in humility, transparency, and mutual support. These are things that Skowhegan perfectly modeled that I’ve not only tried to bring forward into my local art community in Los Angeles, but also adopted as a mantra for my daily existence in the world.



Erica Wessmann

It’s all a blur but it is probably the happiest I have been in my adult life.

Dear Skowhegan

Reflections on the summer

Already I know that Skowhegan changed my life. For a while I thought it had made me a different person. I have realized that it has done something much more than that; it gave me the strength and confidence to be exactly who I am.
— Leonora Hennessy, A '02
The experience at Skowhegan was fundamental for me because I regained conviction in my own work as an artist. I believe again that my artwork is pertinent, important, and possible. And I will be forever grateful to Skowhegan for that. Every member of the community contributed to build a diverse, tolerant, and respectful environment, which translated divergence into a fertile field for reflection and understanding, and for professional and personal growth.
— Ximena Diaz, A '10
At Skowhegan I felt nurtured, encouraged, supported, and understood. I also felt challenged, called out, pushed, and almost telepathically let loose into new realms of work…
— Molly Lowe, A '08
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How can I say my experience at Skowhegan taught me who I was without sounding soft? It confirmed my position in the world as an artist. It gave me intellectual muscle. I left there with a sense of confidence I have never before possessed.
— Emily Mast, A '06
In my life, there have been places that have become part of who I am. These landscapes exist in memory; the energy and spirit of the place permeates my being. Skowhegan is one of these enchanted places.
— Lauren E. Winnen, A '04
My summer spent at Skowhegan saved me in so many ways. It rekindled my will to make work; it gave me faith in other people and their work.
— David Michael DiGregorio, A '02
Dear Skowhegan: When I first met you I was scared and shy and not quite sure why I wanted to be an artist anymore. I had spent the year before struggling to make ends meet and my studio practice felt irrelevant. Then I met you, and all of a sudden I felt alive again. You somehow made me believe in myself and my work again, and you were able to take away the burden I was feeling in my studio practice and create an environment where I was not afraid of the unknown and embraced experimentation.
— Brooke Berger, A '10
I can’t say that I never falter, but I can say that Skowhegan has given me the ability to remember that sometimes utopia does exist, where you are among peers that actually care and take an interest in what you have to say; that I remember what I like about art, and how multi-faceted and enormous that world is; that you have to find the strength to push through and promote; that my network is bigger than the small bubble I thought it was; and that this wonderful shared experience will also always only be mine.
— Avi Krispin, A '09
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Difficulties [after Skowhegan]: I now live in a box. There are not as many stars here in NY. Or they are hiding.
Request: Please send me a box of fresh air, sunshine, trees, and the smell of grass. If this is too much to ask for, please send the sparkle that the fireflies make when you are walking down the hill at night alone without a flashlight. Or, if that is too hard just that light between the leaves and reflection of the trees that falls into the elongated puddle next to the road. Or, if that is too hard to capture, that green moss that attaches itself to the small wooden bridge…
— Elanit Kayne, A '07
My work has changed as a result of my experience at Skowhegan. I have found myself exploring other mediums and approaches to art making that I probably wouldn’t have investigated this early in my career. Skowhegan has given me the chance to learn how to be a better artist.
— Josh Anderson, A '05
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At a time in my life when I was starting to lose faith, Skowhegan has totally rejuvenated my creative spirit and has left me feeling empowered and confident… Skowhegan, in my opinion, is the single most important experience that any artist who is eager to learn must encounter. It’s enlightening, humbling and reaffirming.
— Gabe Martinez, A '03

Fresco: The Golden Time

An interview with Skowhegan Fresco Instructor Sean Glover (A'03)

Participants in the Old Dominion Fresco Barn, 2013.

Participants in the Old Dominion Fresco Barn, 2013.

Fresco has been part of Skowhegan since its founding in 1946. Campus remains one of the few places in the United States where this technique is still taught and practiced by contemporary artists. In this interview, Fresco Instructor Sean Glover (A '03) gives a history of the medium at Skowhegan and a provides a glimpse into the practice on campus today.


What is the history of fresco at Skowhegan?

Skowhegan was founded by four artists  (Bill Cummings, Henry Varnum Poor, Sidney Simon and Charles Cutler) who came together after  World War II, at the end of an era in which social realism and mural painting were very popular. They wanted to create a space not only for artists to go and practice and reflect and learn from one and other, but also pick up practical skills. Because fresco was still a part of the broader artistic conversation of that moment, people could learn fresco at the school and use that skill to get commissions for major jobs. Henry Varnum Poor had worked on frescoes with Diego Rivera, and we still use some of his techniques at Skowhegan today.

Since then, the culture has shifted. There are different materials, different approaches to making art— post-studio practice, conceptualism, time-based media like video—all of these things have come into the fold and fresco has moved to the periphery. So when I talk about fresco at Skowhegan, I try to emphasize that by participating in it, you're contributing to the history of the school and coming into contact with its foundation.

Fresco is a unique process that has emerged in many different cultures, often ones that  have had little or no contact with each other. When you work with fresco, you’re interacting with something really ancient, but also something very immediate. You're touching base with different sites and architectures, different cultures, and of course a broad range of subject matters. I describe it as a kind of "meta-process," or "meta-material." It's loaded just by participating in it. Fresco is unique in that way.

Sean Glover (A ‘03) and participants preparing pigments for fresco, 2015.

Sean Glover (A ‘03) and participants preparing pigments for fresco, 2015.

What is fresco?

Fresco is the process of painting into wet plaster. The plaster is made of calcium hydroxide, or lime. When you paint into the plaster, you're participating in what is called a "fresco cycle," where the material begins as a rock, is processed and aged, and then is applied to a wall. When the plaster is applied to the wall, it wants to return to its initial rock state, so your time painting is actually the very end of that cycle. As the plaster dries, a calcium carbonate crystal forms over the paint and retains the pigment, which is what sets fresco apart from other mural painting: the painting is physically a part of the wall, physically set into the architecture. It's not laid on top; it's fused with it.

Working with fresco requires negotiation with the surface. A newly formed, newly wet wall—what I call a “young” wall—does not completely absorb paint, forcing you to temper yourself and slow down. Then as the wall begins to dry, it becomes important to approach the painting holistically, hydrating the wall by adding water to the entirety of the surface as you work. This process extends the painting and forms stronger crystals.

The Fresco Shop is an interesting dovetail to the time-based work done in the Media Lab, where you can go back and edit your work. You can go back in time in a certain way. In fresco, it's not as easy: if you try to go back and lift up or erase, you compromise the surface in a way that actually dampens the color. So there's this kind of balance you have to strike with the surface.

At the end of the fresco cycle, a shift occurs where you are able to start employing the traditional conventions of blending and moving paint on the surface, techniques that you initially have to put aside. This stage is what the Italians call the “tempo doro” or the golden time.

There is the romantic idea of the artist working alone in their studio and having this kind of intimacy with the image. Tempo doro is a rare moment where the romantic image of the artist and the chemical reality actually coincide. By spending your time working with the wall, you actually earn that moment. It's a transformation that you bear witness to which can only happen if you're working with the wall constantly, with sensitivity to the character of that material.

What impact does fresco have on the participants?

I trust the participants to make their own image. I don’t give them input on the image during the workshops, but I do hold them accountable to the wall. In addition to participating in the history, and having that moment where it’s just the artist and the wall, I want them to understand that the labor put into the surface is inherited by next year’s class. Participants work with the wall for roughly three hours. This can be a revelatory experience where they start to confront labor and really begin to understand the intensity of having to refine themselves and respect the craft. Often people remark that this experience really shapes them and makes an impression on their practice.

In the painting process, the inability to edit as you go has sparked conversations with participants about accepting mistakes and then actually integrating them into the work, as well as the concept of “perfection.” Putting aside some of the preconceptions of what painting is lets new gestures—new ways of working and thinking about the wall—emerge. This is generally how things shift: by offering flexibility, you end up with some surprises. I find it really exciting to hear different approaches of working with the material. As I've taught over the years, the conversations have shifted toward thinking about working with something other than ourselves, and exploring how that translates to more than just painting.

During the summer of  2017, artists at Skowhegan created a 25 ft. x 15 ft. Fresco Grotto, linking the history of meditative sites of refuge to the experience at Skowhegan as space of creative practice and reflection.

How did this project come into being?

The Fresco Grotto began with resident faculty artist Angela Dufrense saying, "Why don't we try doing a fresco that is off-site, away from the barn?” She started with this theme of “the grotto.” With Angela Dufresne's aesthetic, it aligned with not only the way she paints, but also the way she thinks of the world, or some of her interests in the world. People became really energized and excited about that possibility, and the class’s openness and willingness to contribute is really where it began.

We took some risks with the Fresco Grotto, because we had limitations regarding the installation—we couldn't attach a permanent fresco inside the building without having to dismantle it or figure out a tricky way to attach to the wall, so it needed to be temporary. We found an underutilized space and created this system of splicing together foam, which, with respect to the broad history of fresco, is a brand new approach. The participants organized themselves to build this in phases over the course of the summer.

All together, I believe there were 20 to 25 people involved in the creation of the Fresco Grotto. Not everyone was interested in painting and instead simply wanted to participate, contribute, and help others realize it. They wanted to see what they could do, and how they could collaborate to make a unique presentation of fresco on campus. There was a spirit of curiosity and a willingness to do some hard work. They pulled it together and made it happen. It was really remarkable and I couldn't be more pleased with it.

After the 2017 session ended, a group of alumni with advanced fresco expertise participated in a 10-day fresco intensive on campus with Fresco Master Renato Giangualano who traveled from Italy to lead the workshop. The group took a deep dive into materials and techniques that expanded their knowledge of the medium, passing the tradition of this material from one generation to the next, and ensuring that Skowhegan will continue to hold knowledge of this increasingly rare practice.

A second workshop was held in August 2018. This session also concerned the conservation of an outdoor fresco from 1955 by Annie Poor commemorating Skowhegan’s Founding Families and located at Sap House, next to Red Farm. Preserving this part of Skowhegan’s history and recognizing Poor’s critical role  in the first three decades of the school are meaningful in setting the stage for Skowhegan’s future.

What are the next steps of this restoration?

The wall on which Annie Poor’s fresco is mounted is a little unstable, in part because it is wicking up moisture and salt through the cement. Currently, we're in the process of creating alternate vents so that the wall no longer draws in salts from the ground, which is damaging to the fresco. This process began with Bill Holmes, Grounds and Maintenance Manager, and his crew excavating underneath Sap House and putting mechanisms in place to ensure that not too much water comes up. We're doing the final parts of that process, slowly going in and reinforcing the back of the wall and coating it with materials that allow it to breathe, but not draw in water.  

The other part is the restoration of the face of the fresco. Fresco Master Renato Giangualano, who led the workshop, helped us devise the restoration plan. He is lending his expertise for all aspects of the restoration, but with regard to working on the face of the fresco itself, he will actually come in and have his hands on it.

Each participant in the fresco intensive came from a different background. Was Renato Giangualano surprised by the diversity of experience?

He was excited by it, while also bringing his own traditional knowledge and perspective. When people would share their own methods, he might say, "You can do it that way, but here’s the way it is traditionally done." He's very well versed and intimate with the process, but he understands that he's just one voice in the tradition. It’s more important to him that people are invested in learning and exploring.

In my case, I am a sculptor. My first encounter with fresco was when I signed up to be a fresco monitor during my summer as a participant just to hang out with Daniel Bozhkov, A '90, F '11, and longtime fresco instructor. I am not really trained as a painter, but that has never waivered Renato’s interest in sharing his knowledge with me. I'm really grateful for that, and that's something I know Oscar [Rene Cornejo A ’14, Program Coordinator and Fresco Assistant] and I try to provide to participants as well. We want to engender a kind of openness and push things toward that spirit of curiosity.

What Renato appreciates and what he loves about Skowhegan is that investment in exploration. People here are very committed to searching through material and art with real sincerity. They let down their guard and they can show that sincerity in a way that’s not always possible outside of this place. And it’s that tendency toward openness which begins here at Skowhegan that can often resonate beyond the summer.


An Oral History of Fresco

From the Archive

Pariticipants in the Old Dominion Fresco Barn, 1947.

Pariticipants in the Old Dominion Fresco Barn, 1947.

Over the course of Skowhegan’s history, fresco has been taught by a small group distinguished fresco artists, including founder Henry Varnum Poor, Anne Poor, Stoney Conley, Walter O’Neil, and Daniel Bozhkov. These knowledgeable and dedicated artists have added to Skowhegan’s rich catalog of recorded lectures with their presentations on the history and technique of fresco.

Presented below are excerpts from the lectures of Stoney Conley, Walter O’Neil, and Daniel Bozhkov. These lectures are included among the over 650 lectures in Skowhegan’s Lecture Archive. Dating from from 1952 to the present, the Skowhegan Lecture Archive comprises recorded talks delivered by visual artists, poets, architects, philosophers, journalists, curators, historians, and choreographers to artists-in-residence during the School's annual summer program. 

To view our complete holdings or to schedule a visit to the Skowhegan archives, researchers may see here. For questions or more information, please contact Paige Laino at

Anne Poor

The Italian Tradition of Fresco, 1972

Anne Poor on the steps of the Old Dominion Fresco Barn, 1957.

A lot of the things that you’ll see when you look at the Italian High Renaissance, and all the frescos done in Italy, are the insistence on architectural detail. This was something that is also part of their way of life. If they didn’t have windows where they wanted them, they painted them there. They used the most primitive means to achieve a kind of elegance. And they painted marble surfaces, they painted every kind of surface they wanted to have. The houses are almost all masonry in Italy, so you have this kind of rich, decorative finish to every wall, and the way it was finished, the thing at that time, was fresco. Of course [now], we’re in another situation.

The point about tradition is that it gives you freedom. And I think that nothing changed very much, basically, through all these years in Italy (I’m just going to talk about Italy). Things were developed and they were repeated over and over again by different artists. It was sort of a competitive thing, to see whether you could make a better man than the next person. And if you see, there are two—there’s a Michelangelo of a man holding another man, a dying man. He did that in his Sistine Chapel; Signorelli did exactly the same thing. This was a fascination and, I think, is sort of what you call a tradition.

The fact that we don’t have any tradition makes us isolated. We depend on ourselves and we are kind of—there’s a word for that, when your energy is kind of absorbed, enervated by this. I feel that everybody is aware of it. It’s what Paul Jorges was talking about, and I feel that this is why when you go to a museum and you see a white canvas on a white wall, it means something; it means that this person is making a statement about the world he lives in.

So you’ll see in these pictures that there was something they wanted to say. They were telling stories and they made everything as real as they possibly could. They were explicit. If they wanted to show that God was there, they stuck him there, up in the sky. And if Eve was coming out of Adam’s rib, she came out—great, big, fat woman—and floated through the air. They had devils, and they had torture, and they had every kind of violence they portrayed in their paintings from the very beginning, in all the churches. They’re pictures! It’s like a picture book. They did the grandiose and the extravagant, but they also did the unexpected. And I think everybody did a little bit of it.


Stoney Conley

Preparing the fresco surface, 1984

Participants in the fresco shop, 1984.

Participants in the fresco shop, 1984.

Okay. Now in the next process we're applying thin layers of the prepared mortar, with the trowel. The idea is to cut slices and press it into this layer, at about an eighth of an inch, between an eighth and a quarter, consistently in depth, because you want it to dry at the same period.

Now this is the hardest part for Americans to learn, because we didn't grow up in a culture that had a lot of lime stucco houses, and none of us have done a lot of troweling. If you go to the Mediterranean, everybody does it. Every time they have a crack in the wall they slap some up, and the Italians are the best plasterers in the world. They're usually the people who do this.

I'm hoping you'll be able to see over my shoulder. It's a process of cutting thin slices, forcing it onto the wall, pressing in, and pulling down a little bit. You can see how a team of plasterers would be considerably faster, which is why this is usually done, especially in the old days—Every painter had a workshop where you went to apprentice, and learn the trade from them.

The other part about this is that you get a surface—if you press this in, and every time you trowel across it you pull off a certain amount of lime, out of the sand, it sticks on the trowel and you want to get rid of it, you want to wipe it on anything available—if you glop that into the surface, that's where your cracks appear, because you get high concentrations of lime without any sand. So as it dries, that part dries quicker or slower, depending on the temperature. [Sounds of rubbing and troweling].

So in the old days—assuming that we're talking about a Renaissance workshop—the painter—say, Ghirlandaio, would be up here with a trowel, with a couple people throwing water on the wall (including the young Michelangelo), and he'd have somebody else behind him doing the second part, where you're doing a finishing trowel, getting it all smooth and making sure the seams disappear. If you can imagine—Michelangelo frescoed the Sistine Chapel without any help. He had some help from Florence but he didn't go on with them, and he fired them. He didn't spend a lot of time in Ghirlandaio’s studio, and he considered himself a sculptor. But when the Pope summoned him, you don't turn down the Pope, so he agreed to do it, and he spent two, three, four years doing this. [Laughter].


Daniel Bozhkov

Mexican Mural Painting, 2006

Daniel Bozhkov and participant in the Old Dominion Fresco Barn.

Daniel Bozhkov and participant in the Old Dominion Fresco Barn.

Mexican mural movement was so powerful, and also time-wise fit, and somehow historically captured such a vast amount of that cultural imagination of that time that it’s too difficult to—I spoke recently to a curator in Austin who is like one of the foremost curators of Latin American art in the States. And he was still complaining about—it’s difficult to see other artists of that time working with, in a completely different kind of like vein, like a conceptual artist and other, because these things were so kind of dominant in some ways, in terms of how art was kind of like understood and what art is for and all that. Of course now we’re slowly getting out of that, but it was a very particular period. As you know, a number of so-called New York School painters, through the WPA and…many of them were actually quite connected to the Mexican muralists, being assistants and, directly, I mean Jackson Pollock was very involved.

So there is this kind of strange kind of heritage there that has to be rejected to come again, formally as well.

In the history of Skowhegan itself, one of the four very closely involved in the beginning of the school, in the founding of the school was Ben Shahn, who was himself an assistant of Diego Rivera and participated in the scandal of Rockefeller Center frescoes that, Diego Rivera painted and then Rockefeller wanted to remove because he painted a portrait of Lenin in the center of Rockefeller Center.

[...] And it’s very interesting to me how we, contemporary now, currently, what is our view of type of work as well, that particular art that has a very specific agenda, that has a very particular kind of political position. It’s unapologetic in what it’s trying to teach you, almost like didactic stuff that many of us now would completely, stay away from or not  be interested in at all. But it’s interesting the angle we have here, and what this particular kind of work comes down to and what it does. Almost like what is it for in a way.


Walter O’Neil

Fresco At Skowhegan, 1990

And just in closing, why is fresco done in Skowhegan? It seems like a really weird place—you have contemporary artists coming to Skowhegan every summer, you people from all over the country and all over the world coming here and there’s fresco going on.

Fresco is part of Skowhegan because [one of the founders], Willard Cummings, loved fresco and did fresco as well as Henry Varnum Poor, and Cummings starting the school in the Forties, sort of out of that tradition of WPA people doing frescos; and... it’s continued ever since. This is an example of a fresco by Joel King—that far back wall—that was done in 1954, well—along with six other artists, in the South Solon Meetinghouse, which is six miles down the East Madison Road; that the Skowhegan School arranged for them, took plaster—and it’s really—to paint it in true fresco; and it’s really wonderful to see... I mean, it’s sort of... the Sistine Chapel of Maine, in a sense. (laughter) And there’s a wide range of techniques that are used there as well, so it would be interesting for you to go see sometime. We might have a class trip sometime in July to go visit it as well.

Walter O’Neil with participant in the Fresco Shop.

Walter O’Neil with participant in the Fresco Shop.


Helen Frankenthaler at Skowhegan

From the Archive

Helen Frankenthaler came to Skowhegan during the summer of 1986 as a visiting faculty artist. In addition to conducting studio visits with participants, she gave a lecture on campus in the Old Dominion Fresco Barn. This talk, excerpts of which can be explored below, is preserved in Skowhegan’s Lecture Archive, a trove of lectures by faculty and other artists who spoke at Skowhegan dating back to 1952.

On October 5th, 2017, Skowhegan announced that it has received a $250,000 gift from the Helen Frankenthaler Foundation. The funds will provide for a new studio building which will be named in Frankenthaler’s honor, acknowledging her deep commitment to studio practice, and will accommodate discrete workspaces for three visual artists. When complete, the Frankenthaler Studio will be the 15th studio building on Skowhegan’s 350-acre campus, joining those named for other artists who taught at Skowhegan, including founder Willard “Bill” Cummings and Jacob Lawrence.

Read the full release to learn more about the Helen Frankenthaler Foundation's gift.


Helen Frankenthaler:  “Okay. New work. I wrote this in the middle of the night, in quite a panic, one night, feeling I'd been looking at all this new work and very alone for about a year and a half. I had this body of work, and I felt, I don't know if it means anything. Then I felt, well, what about my past, and other artists' pasts, and everything else. So for a few nights, on and off, I would just make some notes about new work. These are some of them, in no particular order.

New work: People often go up to an artist and say, ‘Are you doing any new work?’ Or, ‘I hear you have a body of new work.’ The artist is usually taken aback by such a confrontation. Recently, after many such inquiries, I literally sat down and gave some thought to what, really, new work means.

  1. What does it mean when an artist presents new work? Recent work? Or fresh work, the beginning of a new phase, or spirit? A new direction or the hint of one?

  2. Does the artist fully realize what he's accomplished, what he's doing, what he's up to?

  3. How does it look different?

  4. How has it developed? Does it make a new statement? Hopefully, does it enlarge one's truth? Are we shocked or puzzled by it in a fresh way? And are we shocked in a way that goes beyond initial shock? That is, beyond entertainment, but, instead, a shock that eases us into seeing and enjoying, and growing with beauty?

  5. Is the new work a minor departure or a significant breakthrough? A new way ‘to see’? A magic that combines a repetition of the past within a new vision, within the context of the artist's whole aesthetic gestalt — the eye, the mind, the wrist, the leap of heart that physically places the mark.

When an artist is developing a departure within his aesthetic, there is an initial shock, or surprise, of a first picture. For myself, I can think of how I felt first looking at Mountains and Sea, 1952; or Sesame, 1970; Roulette, 1978; or the blue one [Out of the Blue], 1985; the one I said I'd painted just about a year ago, the first of a series.

Then a body of work usually follows those pivotal pictures and grows within the context of that initial shock. Eventually that core of work enhances and restates and explains, that first surprise picture. Nothing comes out of the blue. Mountains and Sea, for example, was followed by many years of soaked, stained work, placed on unsized, unprimed cotton duck. Which really isn't true. It wasn't many years. It was maybe one of the first, but many years of pictures that led up to it. Also, what I forgot to write was that I'd spent a summer of doing nothing but landscapes in Nova Scotia that year and suddenly did Mountains and Sea after many, many small landscapes. I'd already been an abstract painter, but I spent the summer just doing what I call ‘verbatim landscapes’ — the tree that looked just like the tree.

Small’s Paradise, 1964, and Buddha’s Court, 1964, reinforce the format of the square and also began what later, much later, became tinted ground, tinted ground rather than merely leaving the duck the color it is, naturally.

The blue one painted in June 1985 spawned many pictures. I would guess about one third of those I destroyed in the process, right or wrong, out of doubt.

The following new body of work, what you saw, hopefully continues to resolve that first surprise picture, which seemed awkward, inevitable, and at the same time to have the sense of rightness, the certainty of the mark. A new painting has the authority of saying, in effect, ‘I had to be made!’ It has the sudden look to it, and to the artist himself. But when we look at that one, seemingly simple gesture of the new work, of a new picture, all the effort, search, failure, confusion, and often depression that preceded it seems to show not at all.

That is one side of the coin — it doesn't show at all. [From the other,] you know that, in order to do this, the artist must have felt certain ways — and I think the older you get the more you appreciate that — even if it's the most sunlit, primary-colored, left-handed dream of a picture. Well, that's one reason you can tell the difference, in a flash, between a kid's picture and a grownup's. Very often people say to you, ‘Who made this?’ And I'll say, ‘A very free, wonderful four-year-old who has no guilt yet, just an angel, but a kid.’ And they'll say, ‘Gee, I would have sworn it was a Matisse.’ I feel [like saying], You dope! [Audience laughter] It’s another trip.

Where was I?

It's only a lucky moment, all things combined, that the artist and the picture itself, together, say ‘give’.

And then I just have some other notes, such as space and light: The shapes and forms that one first puts down are the need and excuses for putting down the right colors, exactly where they belong, in a given space. There should be a constant dialogue between color and line, and all within the perfect scale and light. And you have an intuitive sense of placing within that scale.

And that's it on new work. So. Speak. Or don't.”