Is Julian Schnabel Still Painting?

Julian Schnabel's rise to fame feels like a classic New York art scene story—bold, messy, and impossible to ignore. I first stumbled on his work in a documentary about 1980s avant-garde artists, and his 'plate paintings' immediately stood out. Shattered ceramics glued to massive canvases, splashed with violent, emotional brushstrokes—they weren’t just art; they were a middle finger to minimalism. Galleries initially rejected him, but then Mary Boone gave him a show in 1979, and the art world lost its collective mind. Critics called it 'kitsch,' but the sheer audacity made him infamous overnight. What’s wild is how he leveraged that notoriety. By the ’90s, he’d pivoted to filmmaking, directing 'Basquiat,' a raw tribute to his late friend. The movie divided audiences, but Schnabel didn’t care—he treated cinema like another canvas, all dripping sentiment and jagged edges. Now he’s this polarizing cult figure, half-celebrated, half-scorned, which honestly feels like exactly where he wants to be.

Julian Schnabel, the artist and filmmaker known for his bold, textured paintings and films like 'The Diving Bell and the Butterfly,' has had quite the romantic journey. He was first married to Jacqueline Beaurang, and together they had two children. After their divorce, he married Olatz López Garmendia, a Basque actress and designer who appeared in some of his films. Their relationship seemed like a perfect blend of art and life, but they also eventually parted ways. Currently, he's married to May Andersen, a Danish model. Their relationship shows how Schnabel's personal life mirrors his artistic ethos—unpredictable, vibrant, and full of passion. What I find fascinating is how his marriages reflect his creative evolution. From Beaurang to Garmendia to Andersen, each relationship seems to have left its mark on his work. Garmendia, for instance, wasn’t just a muse but a collaborator. Andersen brings a different energy, one that feels more modern and cosmopolitan. It’s like his love life is another canvas where he experiments with different styles and influences.

Julian Schnabel's films are like vivid paintings—each one bursts with emotion and visual flair. My favorite is 'The Diving Bell and the Butterfly,' which tells the true story of Jean-Dominique Bauby with such raw beauty. The way Schnabel captures confinement and imagination is unforgettable. Then there’s 'Before Night Falls,' a poetic dive into Reinaldo Arenas’ life, blending rebellion and artistry. 'Basquiat' feels deeply personal, almost like Schnabel was painting his friend’s legacy onto film. 'At Eternity’s Gate,' with Willem Dafoe as Van Gogh, is another masterpiece—less about facts, more about the storm inside an artist’s mind. His work always leaves me thinking about how art and life collide. I recently rewatched 'Miral,' and it struck me how Schnabel frames political turmoil through intimate human stories. Even his lesser-known works, like 'Lou Reed’s Berlin,' have this gritty, live-wire energy. What’s wild is how he juggles directing with his career as a painter—his films feel like canvases in motion. If you haven’t seen his stuff, start with 'Diving Bell.' It’s the kind of movie that lingers in your bones.

Julian Schnabel's controversy stems from his unapologetic defiance of artistic norms, which some see as genius and others as pure arrogance. His early works, like those massive plate paintings, were groundbreaking but also polarizing—critics either hailed them as revolutionary or dismissed them as gimmicky. Then there's his persona: brash, loud, and dripping with self-confidence, which rubs people the wrong way. He once compared himself to Michelangelo, and whether that's tongue-in-cheek or not, it fuels the fire. Even his filmmaking, like 'The Diving Bell and the Butterfly,' got praise but also whispers of 'Who does he think he is?' switching mediums like that. What fascinates me, though, is how his controversies almost fuel his myth. The art world loves to debate whether he's a visionary or just a showman, and that tension keeps him relevant. His work isn't just about the pieces—it's about the spectacle around them, the way he challenges boundaries between high art and ego. Love him or hate him, you can't ignore him, and maybe that's the point.

Julian Schnabel's films are such a visual feast—finding them can feel like hunting for hidden treasure! For his earlier works like 'Basquiat' or 'Before Night Falls,' I'd start with streaming platforms like Criterion Channel or MUBI, which often curate arthouse gems. Physical media lovers might scour eBay or specialty shops for out-of-print Blu-rays; his 'The Diving Bell and the Butterfly' Criterion release is worth every penny. Newer titles like 'At Eternity’s Gate' sometimes pop up on Netflix or Amazon Prime depending on your region. Don’t overlook local indie theaters either—they occasionally screen retrospectives. Last year, I caught a 35mm print of 'Miral' at a rep cinema, and the textured brushstrokes in his framing literally made someone gasp behind me.

Jean-Benoît Dunckel? Oh, he's absolutely still in the game! I stumbled upon his solo work 'H+' a while back, and it had that same dreamy, electronic vibe he perfected with Air. His soundscapes feel like floating through a futuristic Paris at midnight—layered synths, melancholic melodies, all that good stuff. He even dropped 'Carbon' in 2020, which was this gorgeous blend of retro-futurism and existential lyrics. Beyond albums, he’s been scoring films and collaborating with younger artists, like that haunting track with Lou Doillon. It’s wild how his music still feels both nostalgic and fresh. Honestly, I’m just glad he hasn’t vanished into the ether like some of my other favorite 2000s musicians.

Judy Chicago? Absolutely! She's one of those artists who never seems to slow down. I recently stumbled upon her latest project, 'The End: A Meditation on Death and Extinction,' and it’s as powerful as ever. Her work still carries that signature blend of feminist themes and bold visual storytelling. What’s fascinating is how she’s evolved—from 'The Dinner Party' to now tackling existential themes with the same fiery energy. You can tell she’s still deeply invested in pushing boundaries, whether through installations, paintings, or writing. It’s inspiring to see an artist maintain such relevance over decades. I love how she bridges generations, too. Younger artists cite her as a major influence, and she actively engages with contemporary issues like climate change. Her Instagram (yes, she’s on there!) shows her in the studio, vibrant and working away. It’s a reminder that creativity doesn’t retire. If anything, her later works feel more urgent, like she’s racing against time to say everything she wants. That kind of dedication? It’s rare.

Late-night light hitting a chipped mug is one of my favorite things to paint — there's something about those tiny reflected glints and the soft spill of shadow that makes everything feel alive. When I work on making a still life look realistic, I start with values: getting the lights, midtones, and darks in the right relationships beats perfect color every time. I usually do a quick monochrome underpainting or a value sketch to lock in the composition and the major planes. That helps me avoid the trap of matching local color instead of perceived color; once the value structure sings, color becomes a layer that supports what the eye already understands. After values, edges and temperature carry the realism. I deliberately choose where to make edges sharp or soft — crisp where I want the viewer to look, fuzzy where objects recede. I pay attention to lost-and-found edges so forms seem continuous instead of pasted-on. Temperature shifts (warm where light hits, cool where shadows sit) create that believable atmosphere; adding a cool reflected light or a slightly warmer cast near a highlight makes the surface read as real. For translucent things like glass or fruit skin I block in the big shapes, then work with glazes or thin layers to suggest depth and translucency. Specular highlights are tiny but crucial: a well-placed bright spot plus a correct surrounding value tells the brain you’re looking at metal, wetness, or ceramic. Materials and gestures matter too. I use a limited palette to maintain harmony and practice mixing many grays from chromatic mixes rather than neuter black; this keeps color life in the shadows. Painting wet-into-wet gives softer blends, while glazes or scumbles build luminous depth. I also move back often — squinting, flipping the canvas, photographing my setup in different light — to catch proportion or value mistakes early. Composition tricks like a strong diagonal, overlapping shapes, and varied scale add believable depth. If you’re practicing, do quick 20–60 minute studies focusing on one technique: value, edge control, or texture. It’s those focused drills — not copying a thousand details — that teach your eye how to see realism in the everyday clutter of a table.

Julian from 'Wonder: The Julian Chapter' is such a fascinating character because he’s the kid you love to hate at first, but then the story peels back his layers in a way that totally changes your perspective. At first glance, he’s the classic school bully—the one who makes Auggie’s life miserable in 'Wonder' with his cruel jokes and exclusionary behavior. But the standalone chapter flips the script by diving into Julian’s backstory, his insecurities, and the pressure he feels from his parents to conform. It’s wild how much empathy you end up feeling for him once you see the mess of adult expectations and social anxiety behind his actions. What really stuck with me was how Julian’s mom plays into his behavior. Her obsession with appearances and her subtle encouragement of his elitism made me realize how much kids absorb from their environment. The chapter doesn’t excuse his bullying, but it complicates it in a way that feels painfully real. By the end, when Julian starts reflecting and making amends, I found myself rooting for his growth almost as much as I rooted for Auggie. It’s a masterclass in how redemption arcs should work—messy, slow, and deeply human.

It’s fascinating to think about how Friedrich Nietzsche, a philosopher known for his profound thoughts on existence and morality, is sometimes connected to art, particularly painting. There have actually been exhibitions showcasing works inspired by his philosophy. For example, in recent years, some contemporary artists have interpreted Nietzsche's concepts into visual art forms, creating pieces that reflect his ideas on the Übermensch or the eternal recurrence. I recall visiting an exhibition where various artists used vibrant colors and abstract forms to deeply explore his themes. The interplay of philosophy and art can evoke such strong reactions, as the paintings drew parallels between the chaos of modern life and Nietzsche's existential musings. As art has the power to challenge perspectives, these exhibitions often encourage discussions about what it means to live authentically, facing the abyss that Nietzsche often writes about. It's interesting how visual art can translate philosophical ideas into something tangible; in a way, it makes Nietzsche’s dense concepts accessible to a wider audience. Anyone who appreciates both philosophy and art could find such exhibitions incredibly enriching, potentially leading them down a path to explore not only the paintings but also his writings in greater depth. Art retains this unique ability to resonate across different cultures and eras. The haunting beauty of certain pieces felt like echoes of Nietzsche's struggle and passion for life. It was as if the canvases themselves were narrating his internal conflicts! Overall, these exhibitions offer a beautiful blend of visuals and intellect, making the often heavy themes of Nietzsche feel lighter while still provoking thought.