Howie Lee Weiss: Sophistication, Joy, and the Imperfection of Perfection

This qualified prospects us to the language of tunes, which plays a enormous purpose in Howie’s everyday living and art. Lisa Weiss, his spouse, Professor Emeritus at Goucher Faculty, is an internationally acclaimed live performance pianist. A several months ago, I attended an outstanding, Baltimore-area recital she staged as a warm-up for her New York City overall performance at Carnegie Hall.

Her partner, who Lisa states, “hears really deeply,” doesn’t enjoy any musical instruments, except if you depend his masterly handle of 1-quarter-inch-thick, square sticks of vine charcoal, kneaded erasures, rulers, compasses, and reams of Lenox 100 paper. These days, charcoal’s an strange medium of selection for these a subtle artist. Howie will take it to an additional amount.

He also requires his colored felt tip marker sketchbooks (tons of ‘em!) to a at the same time chic and silly degree. In them, he is a musician preparing, practicing, participating in pictorial scales. In these textbooks, Howie will make no difference involving disciplined do the job and disciplined participate in.

Preserving to the topic of audio, HLW’s Gross McCleaf exhibition is a live performance for the eyes. Pay attention to Howie’s “Song 1” and “Song 2.” Is it a stretch to equate his cartoonish, or much better, “reductivist” calculations with the precision of a Bach fugue? Weiss’ humility could result in him to blushingly object to my comparing him to the good Baroque composer. But like that Learn, there is not a “wrong” take note in a wise, super-advanced Weiss get the job done. Everything’s just exactly where and how it ought to be, goofily, down-to-earthly, imperfectly completely.

I envision an just after-breakfast table strewn with shadowless bananas, crescent-formed melon slices, and a trio of three tea cups being sipped by Howie, Tchaikovsky, and Disney respectively. At a nearby desk there’s J.S. Bach, sitting down alone. Overhead there is a most important-colored painting of pleasure and innocence.

I image HLW walking shyly, respectfully in the direction of the Baroque Learn. “Excuse me, sir.” The older person places down his teacup. “Okay if I straighten this canvas on the wall?” Howie asks. “It’s cockeyed.”

Bach nods of course. Howie nods back, as he adjusts the canvas to reside a existence of fantastic harmony. Or not.