#fscotthess

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=

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=

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=

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=

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=

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=

The Prophet Nathan & King David, oil on canvas, 64 x 72 inches #bnaijehudah #muralproject #WIP #workinprogress #muralpainting #narrativepainting #narrativeart #representationalpainting #realism #realistpainting #synagogueart #contemporaryart #religiousart #fscotthess https://www.instagram.com/p/B9j_cmBgIyQ/?igshid=g5x08iz5exy

First work of 2020! F Scott Hess, The Little Window, 2020, oil on ABS panel, 24 x 12 inches. #paintedselfie #selfportrait #WIP #realistpainting #representationalpainting #representationalart #contemporaryrealism #trompeloeil #artistselfie #oilonpanel #fscotthess https://www.instagram.com/p/B8MghhgAcS6/?igshid=18al4j2swpshs