Publication: Catalogue from 1994 Show at The Santa Monica Museum Of Art
Article: "Altered Egos"


"Annabel Livermore, born and raised in the upper Midwest, received a liberal arts education before she began painting two decades ago. Upon her retirement as a librarian, Miss Livermore opted for a warmer climate and has since lived in El Paso, Texas. The following interview by Bertrand Warner, an art critic residing in southern New Mexico, took place in Annabel Livermore's rose garden lying behind her large Edwardian home in downtown El Paso. Miss Livermore wore a pair of sensible black shoes and was dressed in navy blue and white, her greying hair tied into a bun. In the background one could hear water trickling down the fountain.

BW: Let me begin by asking you how long you have been painting and what is the genesis of your obsession?
AL: Never having had any formal instruction, I began painting out of despair and by that I mean to say that a wonderful priest, a truly illuminating man, advised me to look at God's handiwork in order to better appreciate the wonder of the world. Father Amadé, A Trappist Monk who resided at Notre Dame de Grace, first nudged me along in the mid-1970's, when I was suffering from depression, and that summer I bought a set of watercolors and pitched my tent at the edge of a hayfield in upstate New York, where I had an insect's view of life. But, I would not call this an obsession. No, I think the process has been much slower than that, perhaps more like gardening, where on must learn to wait.

BW: Why were you so despondent?
AL: In part, because I was failing to accept my inability to control circumstances. I had not learned to look beyond myself. There is a story about Matisse filling a hospital room with sheets of vibrant colors in order to help cure a patient. His instincts were correct: we are emotionally and physically affected by the colors, smells and textures surrounding us, even if we may not be fully conscious of their importance. And it is no wonder that all Western religions contrast light and darkness, and that Matisse and others, like Hodler, Birchfield, Bonnard and even Kandinsky, have been thought of as messengers of light. Yet at the time my own emotional state was becoming increasingly grey.

BW: Where would you place your own work? In darkness or light?
AL: I am increasingly drawn to shadows, and over the years I have noticed my work moving from mid-day to dusk.

BW: But much of the light, indeed the color in your painting seems to be inspired by Mexico.
AL: Without apology, I am a painter of the provinces. One cannot overstate the importance of locale. After all we are part of this earth. And yet regionalism, for the most part, has been slighted by big city critics. The light in El Paso is brighter and harsher than anywhere else in the country. People either embrace it or shun it. One of the joys of living on the border is to cross the bridge to see how Mexicans, whether they be sophisticates like Luis Berrigan or uneducated peasants, intuitively embrace the sun with the colors they chose for their homes; thought I admit the differences between our cultures are so profound, and yet so subtle, one can easily oversimplify the case. But because of this vibrancy of color and the circularity of line I have no doubt the old European expressionists would have loved visiting here. Sometimes in the late afternoon, I imagine Nolde walking down by the river talking to Otto Mueller and Jawlensky being seduced by the beautiful painted faces in the cantinas.

BW: Some have mentioned a religious element within your work.
AL: Only in so far as I may be empathetic to my surroundings.

BW: How do you feel about the use of religious symbols or iconography?
AL: I try to avoid that, but culturally I am a Christian, a Protestant to be exact, and occasionally these symbols find their way into my work. And yet one must be careful not to debase a currency of faith. The use of symbolism can be an easy ploy.
BW: And yet so much of post-modern art is about appropriation.
AL: I am doubtful of any period or style that defines itself in the negative. Besides, for the most part I am unmoved by art that appears to have been casually appropriate during an aesthetic shopping spree. But it is difficult, I know, not to be blasé when there are so many secondary resources. For my own pleasure I seek primary experiences in my garden and in the activities of my neighborhood.

BW: Would you say your work lacks political or social relevancy because it fails to address specific issues of the day , such as women's rights?
AL: Limone Weil, I believe, said "Beauty captivates the flesh in order to obtain permission to pass right to the soul." Pleasure and beauty are intertwined, and for me painting is an act of pleasure and beauty the door to truth. I much prefer the implicit over the explicit, the soft touch over the heavy hand.

BW: What actually is the process of your painting? Would you consider yourself prolific?
AL: My paintings evolve slowly. I never do studies. There is always considerable revision. Often a painting will be started and then left untouched for a year. Typically, I work on six to ten pictures at a time, excluding watercolors and prints. Before I begin a new picture there is usually an emotional swelling within my breasts - yes, I first see with my breasts before I see with my eyes - and the image, which is more of a feeling or a recollection of a dream, is rarely clear to my eyes, which finally take over.

BW: And what of your elaborate frames? Are they handmade and specific to the picture?
AL: As I constantly repeat to my friend, Beatrice, a painting should never be so large that you cannot turn your back on it. That is a matter of courtesy. Personally, I never paint a picture that cannot be hung on my kitchen wall or above my cupboards. Besides, as I grow older I am less enthralled by heroic gesture and more concerned with intimacy. Perhaps in part because of this preference, I suppose for the moment my favorite twentieth century painter is Morandi. Many of his landscapes could fit easily into a glove compartment. They are small and yet full of grace. They compel me to think back upon Auden's love of George Herbert, his favorite poet, whose intimacy and modesty were more penetrating for Auden than even the dazzling brilliance of Donne. For whom among us, I ask Beatrice, is not drawn to a gentle heart? 

BW: I am glad you have alluded to poets, for some of the titles to the paintings are, in fact, poems, aren't they?
AL: Yes, a few of my paintings have what I call "extended titles." These vary in size from rather short to lengthy, and they are meant to be, I suppose, more of an amplification of the picture than a description.

BW: But sometimes these titles do not relate directly to the images within the paintings.
AL: But they do indirectly. That's why I referred to them as "amplifications," for it seems to me our everyday world is a shower of sound and color raining down upon us every second, and most of these images appear to our eyes and ears as non-sequiturs, though, actually, they are all interrelated. In the same way I hope my titles address my paintings.

BW: With some trepidation, Miss Livermore, and because of the subject matter of this exhibition, I would like to ask you about the use of pseudonym or multiple identity.
AL: My good man, and I don't mean to sound rude, but do we not all come into this world naked as Jay Birds and leave in the same way? What is a name? Is it not simultaneously a mode of empowerment and confinement, a narrow fiction of history for a species teetering on the brink of destruction and too consumed with personal identity and tribalism? Whether knowingly or not, each of us wears a disguise. We all go by pseudonyms. And in the end the only honest appellation for any of us is Child of God."


Read more:
Warner, Bertrand. "Altered Egos." Show at The Santa Monica Museum of Art. Catalogue of 1994. Page 43.