Monday, June 4th, 2012
7

An Analysis of the Thomas Kinkade Calendar for May and June

Well, this is awkward. But before we start, let me say: R.I.P. Thomas Kinkade, who died last month. While all of the circumstances surrounding his later life and sudden death may never be fully known to the public, it's clear that he was carrying some demons in addition to his talent and ambition. It's also clear that his painting had become an effective way to mask those demons. Thomas Kinkade the Message was supposed to be the proxy for Thomas Kinkade the Man, but Thomas Kinkade the Marketer overruled them both. But while he's gone, his monthly calendar is still a thing, and so, yes, this column is still a thing.

May and June are similar months, thematically: they're about commerce. It's interesting, whenever Kinkade "shares the light of faith and hope" he goes all gauzy and superficial, but he's remarkably direct when it comes to painting a scene of business. So here we have San Francisco's Fisherman's Wharf and Carmel's Ocean Avenue, and in both we have the typical just-after-a-gentle-rain shimmer and the "golden hour" pre-sunset sky (one looks like it has been copied and pasted from the other), but your eyes are mainly directed to what could be called "sharing the blazing light of retail." Will we ever discover that ConEdison or Pacific Gas & Electric were his investors? Many of the stores bear the names of his family members, his wife Nanette (also NK and NANSK) and daughters Merritt and Chandler, and in both paintings we see—wait for it—a Thomas Kinkade retail store. Why, we never knew! It must have crossed Kinkade's mind to create an infinity mirror effect, depicting his Carmel gallery pictured in a Carmel street scene hanging on the wall inside the Carmel gallery, and on and on. It's likely that the bristles were not small enough, not that the ambition was not big enough.

To top it off we also see a man intended to be Kinkade himself doing "plein air" painting, as well as the name of the company he founded, MAGI (Media Arts Group, Inc.). Can we say the demons are in the details? There's a theory that Jackson Pollock cleverly disguised his full name inside "Mural," one of his essential paintings, highlighting the notion that behind the wild abstraction there is still a conventional structure to his work. To me, the gesture seems dubious at best, but the link between our "humble" illuminator of light and the man whom he condemned as creating a "culture of chaos" is interesting. Chaos is as chaos does, right? Even Michelangelo, who famously carved his name across Mary's sash so that everybody would know the Pietá was his work, didn't write "check out my other work" or "I'm available for commissions!" Commerce is as commerce does. The spotlight of self-promotion shines above Kinkade's fuzzy landscapes like the Bat-Signal. It's the thing that grounds his work squarely in the modern era he claimed to detest.

Speaking of commerce, the choice of Fisherman's Wharf is an apt one as a metaphor for Kinkade. Economic and technological changes have meant that the wharf is no longer a hub for fleets of fishing boats, but is a lovely tourist magnet with romanticized remnants of bygone eras. Sound familiar? When you order fresh fish at a restaurant, you may get either freshly caught fish or, wink-wink, freshly defrosted fish. But it's, you know, fresh enough. Kind of like how a mass-produced canvas print of a Kinkade painting, if dabbled on by a "master highlighter," can still be considered an original, or at least original enough.

And I may be wrong, but I think I noticed an error in the wharf painting as well. There is a boat in the middle that appears to not have its lights turned on. What happened? Is there a dark subplot here? Are there teens playing strip poker inside? Is this the home of the scoundrel who removed all the humans from the painting? Did Kinkade run out of the color 80-Watt Fluorescent? Disappointingly, this is only oversight and not intrigue. We know that in Kinkade's fantasy world the light, whatever it meant, had to be coming out of everything and everywhere all at the same time. He never was able to break out of that world. Maybe the more apt metaphor is not Fisherman's Wharf, but Alcatraz.



Previously: January, February, March and April


Drew Dernavich is a cartoonist for the New Yorker magazine (not that cartoonist – the other one) and the co-creator of the cartoon improv show Fisticuffs! He is on Twitter.

7 Comments / Post A Comment

Mr. B (#10,093)

I've been missing these!

LanaDelMeh (#207,596)

For June, Why does it look like there is a little unleashed white dog in the street by the red pickup that is about to get run over? Is he standing in the middle of a busy road painting this? Is he the kelly bensimon of painters?

daemonsquire (#9,523)

Carmel, it turns out, has become a glistening clusterfuck of misplaced souls, absconded from their rural abodes by caprice of the mysteriously powerful magi/painter in the shadows around the corner, and dumped here to dazedly mill about this twilight zone, where the sun refuses to ever completely set.

BadUncle (#153)

The unlit boat reveals the anguish within Kinkade's world. While almost the entirety erupts with splattery immanence, that single boat resonates with the very hollow core that belies the painter's entire conceit. Inside, it smells like fish and trolls.

A painting of consumption exceeds the experience of actual consumption as the anticipation of consumption, of possible or achievable satiety, release, always exceeds the disappointing consummation of consumption and its hollow regretful aftermath, by preserving that moment, that pre-pre-disappointment moment, in aspic or amber for eternity. It is, in effect, a sort of masturbatory aid for the capitalistically de-sexed, a crinkly Hustler found under a hedge near the train station for the wallet, a black-rubber 24-inch faux dong sold under the trade name of "The Alien" for the credit card. Luckily for us there remains the final enduring irony that this painting must itself be consumed in order to initiate its maudlin tit-and-tassel passion play.

Mackle (#446)

With his Carmel Oceean Avenue piece Kinkade pushes further than Walt Disney or Norman Rockwell to depict Baudrillard's hyperreality. The piece is a study in contradictions. The gauzy backlit street scene that melts easily into the canvas is fraught with easily discernible flaws. The sidewalks are too narrow. The cars are of contrasting vintage. The brickwork patterns impossible for a load bearing wall marking them as merely a facade.

All these contradictions undermine the text deconstructing itself until we realize that we are not viewing Ocean Avenue in Carmel. We are in fact looking at a portrait of the Duke of Windsor's pugs sitting on a pea stained settee.

Well done Kindade. Well done indeed.

Kincade may be underrated now in the same sense that Jacqueline Susann was disregarded until the future when Spock admired her work in StarTrek 4 The Voyage Home. I treasure my rumpled paperback of her Jackie bio, "Dolores," in much the same way. And it's possible to be entranced by the tiny lights in Kincade pictures, a likely sign of some obscure form of emotional dearrangement that may become more common in the future when more people have gone over to drink the crazy water.

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